


Bringing Him Back

by Ducks



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: AU, Darkfic, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-12-30
Updated: 2000-12-30
Packaged: 2017-10-12 14:38:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 93,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/125915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ducks/pseuds/Ducks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of AtS:Reunion, Angel goes off the deep end and disappears. Only his Childe and the love of his life can save him from madness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE NOTE: This is what we used to call an "ASS" canon fic -- ANGEL SIRED SPIKE! Pisshaw on that Dru nonsense.
> 
> Content warning: Contains explicit sex (m/f, m/m, m/f/m), torture, substance abuse, bloodplay, disturbing imagery, violence, questionable consent, self-injury and gratuitous mush.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the events of "Into the Woods," Buffy is depressed. Spike decides to try to cheer her up. Naughtiness and smutty therapy ensues. In the aftermath, they get a phone call from a distraught ex-cheerleader...

"Checkmate. Again," I tell her.

Buffy's not even looking at me. She stares down at the chess board the way she has all evening, her green eyes empty of anything I can read, as if some answers for whatever questions are plaguing her might be found in the smooth ebony and ivory pieces. She doesn't care about the game, or that I've trounced her thoroughly nine in a row, or even that she's sitting in her mother's living room playing chess with a creature who not so long ago was her arch enemy.

Really, she's had this look for a couple of weeks, now. Sort of vacant, distracted, never quite present in attention where her body is.

I hate to admit it, but seeing her so lost tears me up inside. I've always been drawn to her light (much like that old moth to flame thing), that bright joie de vivre and particular flair with which she does everything, including kick my ass. I'm always helpless in the wry amusement that sparkles in those eyes, the searing commentary of that sarcastic smirk and those biting remarks. But lately, it's like her spirit -- that whatever it is that makes her Buffy-- has moved out, and I'm looking at nothing but barely animated Slayer Shell. The Buffy Zombie.

It's bloody creepy, is what it is.

I wave my hand in front of her distant gaze, which is still fixed on a game now long over. Ass kicking number nine in Spike's column. I should be happy, right? After all, any small victory against my most formidable foe is something to covet.

But mostly, I just want to bring her back from wherever she's gone.

"Hello... Earth to Slayer. You lost. Again."

Her eyes come up slowly from their unseen focus, and she looks into my face, but somehow, her gaze never really manages to meet mine.

"Oh," she mumbles absently, "Play again?"

I have to struggle against the urge to growl in frustration. She sounds like a damn computer or something. I want to shout at her. Ask her why she's so damn lifeless. I have very hard time believing that Captain Cornflake's departure could possibly have this deep an effect on her.

I won't lie and say I had her best interests in mind when I exposed the dunderhead's nighttime hobbies. I won't try to tell you I had even the faintest of good intentions. Fact is, I hated that stupid Neanderthal. I hated his big, caveman head and his floppy hair and that goofy, 'aw-shucks' grin. The way he looked at her with that hang-dog infatuation, scrambling like a starving puppy for scraps of affection from her that he would never get -- and never had any right to expect, if you ask me. I hated the idea of him having those big, clumsy paws all over the Slayer, and I hated the fact that she let him hang around.

So I got rid of him. Or at least, I did my part to help the process along.

Hell, truth be told, I'd rather have her with my fruity Pseudo-Sire. Much as I hate the wanker, there's something comforting about knowing that someone of my blood is looking after her, even if it isn't me.

I stare at her, and for a moment she looks just like him, which throws me. The scrunched brow, the pinched lips, the shadow of sorrow and self-pity dragging her face down into a sorry brooding mask that Angel has spent a hundred years honing into an art form.

"Why bother?" I reply at last, "I'll just hand you your pretty ass again anyway. Gets boring after a bit."

Buffy says nothing. Her attention has already drifted away again, and the only way I know she's heard me at all is by the barely perceptible shrug of her fine shoulders.

Ever since I've declared my self "Pathetic Watch Demon of the Slayer", it seems I've acquired a few handy, and neverendingly annoying skills. One of which is empathy, which comes along with a healthy dose of sympathy.

I've thought about that a bit. About what this effin' chip has done to me. I figure it's something like this -- I have to think a lot more carefully nowadays about what or whom I kill, and that forces me to think about creatures as individuals a bit more, which is a sort of enforced empathy, I guess.

Those Soldier Boys sure know a bit about torture, I tell you. Imagine my great chagrin to find I've got an electronic soul, of all things. When I first figured that one out, I promptly went out and got myself good and snookered. A soul. William the Goddamn Bloody with a USDA electronic soul. Wouldn't Angel be proud?

Point is, I've managed to minimize the empathic damage by focusing only on the Slayer, and it's some measure of relief to realize that I don't really care about her in some mushy, fuzzy-bunny sort of way, but in a "Damn, I miss the smart-ass, fiery bitch who beats the Hell out of me on a regular basis" sort of way. It's nominally better.

"So, what's your problem, then?" I ask her, playing it cool, getting up to grab a pint I've brought from where I've stowed it in the Slayer's fridge, warm it up quick, and bring it back. Sort of a fun irony, I think.

She watches me return, and I see a glimmer of something flash in her dead eyes.

I don't think Buffy's fully comfortable with the new, improved me, either.

"Why would you think anything's wrong?" Her voice is as flat and totally unconvincing as her demeanor. "For that matter, why would you care?"

I lean back against the door frame and give her a nonchalant shrug. "Bored, is all. Telly's out."

She snorts, but doesn't answer my question.

I sit back down in the chair across from her, and lean forward like bloody Freud with my mug of blood in my hand. Buffy stares at me like I just sat down like bloody Freud with a mug of blood in my hand.

"You're really freaking me out with this nice routine, Spike."

I roll my eyes at her. "Stop avoiding the question. You're the one who's been dragging ass around this place for two weeks like somebody ate your damn puppy. It's annoying. When's the last time you even picked up a stake?"

Her empty look turns into a glare. That's something, at least. Shows maybe I can goad her into some semblance of life.

"That's none of your business," she snipes, jumping to her feet in outrage. I'd swear she was getting ready to bolt in a snit, but then, of course, she comes to the realization that this is her house, and that would just be stupid. So she sits down again, her indignant fury making her shake as her eyes drop back to that damned chessboard.

I sit up straighter and gulp down my dinner. After wiping my chin, I add, "Listen, pet, you're not the first person to lose a lover, you know... and it's not like you haven't been abandoned before."

Her head snaps up in shock, and her mouth falls open like she's going to argue. Of course, she can't, because I'm right, so she shuts it again.

Having woken her up a little, I plunge on.

"I have to tell you, I have a really hard time believing you're this broken up over that wussy farmboy."

I can smell her rage snap up a notch. Her body goes a tiny bit more tense, and her scowl scrunches a little further. Yeah... that's what I'm looking for. Stoking the fire. I set my mug down and get ready to run, because I have every intention of pushing her to the snapping point.

"I mean, you barely knew the wanker, for all the scroggin' you did. And he couldn't have been too bright, if he was out playing snack bar to a bunch of demon whores to get your attention! Really, Slayer! I just don't get it!"

"SHUT UP!" she barks.

Oh, yeah! That's my girl. It's not gonna take much, now. And I know just the thing to put her over the edge.

"Quite a come down from the Eternal Ass-Twitching Angst that is my Sire, eh?"

That's it. She's on her feet again, her cute little face all red, and she's advancing on me with murder shining in those...

Oh, shit. Now's where I bolt, if I want my ass to stay a solid and not turn to a fine powder.

"YOU FUCKING BASTARD! WHAT DO YOU KNOW ABOUT IT?" She screams.

Okay, so maybe I pushed the wrong button. I grab my coat and flee out the front door before the "it" even finishes echoing off the living room walls. But Buffy's out of her mind pissed, now, and she's right on my heels. 120-something years as the Big Bad Predator, or no, she's going to catch me. Really, I don't mind so much. I could do with a good spot of violence. So long as I don't get staked.

I haven't run so damned fast in I don't remember how long. And I know for a fact that I've never run like this from her. It feels good, the chase, even if I'm technically the prey. Wind whipping my face, leaping hedges and white picket fences like bloody Jessie Owens, and I have to laugh. I can still hear her cursing from behind me, including something about forgetting a damn stake and how she doesn't need one anyway, because she's going to rip my damned head off with her bare hands.

Buffy catches me just inside the walls of Sunny Rest, and I can smell the rage on her. She tackles me fit for a good rugby match, and I'm still laughing as I crash face first into the wet grass. This is the most fun I've had in forever.

She grabs me by the hair and flips me over, and now I'm laughing so hard, it's all I can do to raise my arms in self-defense. She's panting and growling like a rabid animal as she rains Slayer strength punches down on my face, and in a moment, I'm not laughing anymore, because her hot body is straddling me, and I'm so hard I could probably fuck her right through our clothes.

I've got a little thing for being dominated, you know.

I grab hold of her wrists and finally still her. Her wrath is palpable in the air between us, and her hot breath smells sweet, like candy.

"There. Now don't you feel better?" I manage to choke.

The Slayer freezes and stares down at me, dead silent. Her eyes are wild, her mouth turned down in the most delicious, murderous scowl.

She stinks like madness... and sex. Funny combination, really. Like my old Sire, in fact, but without the blood and the promise of torture implements.

"You did that on purpose," she growls.

I give her my best leer and a shrug in response.

She hauls off and cracks me a good, stiff right in the jaw.

"You ASSHOLE! I FUCKING HATE YOU!" she screeches, and swings again. But this time I'm ready for her, and manage to stop the blow with ease.

She's so close... so close I can fell the heat of her on my skin.

"You really need a new line, Slayer," I say, but my voice isn't quite right... sort of too high and scratchy, with lust or hunger, I'm not sure. And in a split second, I don't really give a witch's tit, because her hot lips are smashed against mine, her sweet tongue violently plundering my mouth. Hands made to tear my kind in two are tearing nothing but my shirt, and then that mouth is on my bare chest, licking, biting hard enough to draw blood. I yelp in spite of myself at the pleasure of it -- it's too much, her mouth, her scent, my blood, her crotch grinding against my hard-on.

My only thought is, "What the Hell is this?"

Then she wipes that thought away by ripping at the button fly of my jeans and yanking them down to my knees, her little hand grasping my rod too hard (not hard enough) and too hot, and I gasp out loud.

"I FUCKING HATE YOU!" She rages on, "You TASTE like Him! I can SMELL Him all over you! I can't STAND IT! I CAN'T STAND THAT YOU KNOW HIM AND YOU HAVE HIS BLOOD IN YOU AND I FUCKING HATE IT!"

She's crying now as she dives down and vacuums my cock right down her tight throat. My brain has checked out, and all that's left is mouth (Slayer mouth. Mouth's been on His mouth, His cock) and her hot tears splashing on my crotch as she sucks with a fury fit to draw a golfball through a garden hose.

"GAH!" I shout. Never was one much for poetry in the sack.

She's hauling me right along to the gates of a Heaven I don't believe in, and it's my every wild dream come true -- the Slayer blowing me right in the middle of the cemetery where just any fledgling (or He Himself...) might come along and see. I tangle my hands in that thick mane of honey hair, and ignore her sobbing, focusing only on the slurping mouth, the grasping hand on my balls. I try not to hate the fact that it's Him she's blowing, and that I'm wishing it was Him that was blowing me. Pretty soon I'm not seeing blonde hair, but sable, not hazel eyes, but melting chocolate, and I can't fucking STAND the idea that I'm in love with the bint because she belongs to Him. Why do I always have to fall in love with His possessions? Can't I, just once, have something of my own?

I grab her by a fistful of that hair, and yank her off my dick, using the momentum to flip her onto her back, eliciting a pained yelp from her chest as all the air leaves her lungs. (He can't fuck her. I can.) I don't have anything to say, because half of me's focused on ripping her clothes off, and the other half is fighting the overpowering compunction to just shred that fine throat and drink Him right out of her veins. God, I want to taste her! So much worse than I want to fuck her. (Her heart will taste like Him.) But I can't, because that would hurt her, and subsequently, hurt me (hurt Him) like Hell. So I'll settle for this.

I finally have her naked and writhing beneath me, tiny hands forcing my mouth back to hers, crushing grip of legs around my waist, heels digging into my ass, commanding me home into that dark, wet, tight, pulsing passage that cost my Sire His soul...

My Sire. My fucking bastard son of a whoring goddamn Sire. My beloved. My Master.

Now I'm fucking his mate, driving my cock so deep and hard (He was here. He felt this.) and damn it, now I'm weeping right along with her. I ram her hard -- it's painful for me, so it must nearly be killing her. But the chip doesn't go off. Buffy wants it. She loves it. She wants me to rip her in two. She meets my every thrust with unbridled viciousness like she knows it hurts me, too.

This is not exactly the coupling I had in mind with the Slayer. We're both sobbing and grunting and fucking each other bloody. I arch myself away from her and watch her throw her head back and howl like some rutting Hellbeast. The sight of it is too much. Her heat, too much. Her blood roaring loud enough to split my skull as she comes. I ram myself in once, twice, again, her throbbing cunt milking me beyond agony, beyond ecstasy, beyond even the tears, and for that single moment, when the world explodes, my balls tighten and release and my cold seed jets into her heat, there is no Angel. There's only us, our shrieking, our orgasm, the stars and the gravestones.

When it's done, I fall onto my back in the grass beside her. She doesn't look at me, she just lays there, panting, staring up at the sky with tears streaming down her face.

I reach for my coat, snatch out my cigs, and light one up. I look over at the Slayer, and now I find she's staring at me. I offer her a smoke. She shakes her head. I shrug. She sits up and wraps her knees in her arms like she's not buck naked in the middle of Sunnydale's biggest graveyard.

"He left me. He promised he never would, but he did."

Her voice has some life, at last -- not quite sorrow, not quite anger... just not understanding. I know she's not talking about pasty fish face commando boy, either.

I stay right where I am. I don't want to touch her again, and have all that pain come back. A goddamn century of repressed pain.

"Yeah, well, you're not the first one he left."

My voice is bitter, a surprise even to me -- but apparently a bigger shock to her. Buffy stares at me like I just told her I'm the Tooth Fairy or something.

(*Gypsies, lad. My lovely mate has brought us some Gypsies...*)

"You were lovers," she observes, like it's something she's suspected for a long time, but only now believes.

A fury washes through me. How can she, the most dread killer of my kind, not know this? Something so simple about my species? Something so fundamental to what we are?

(*Lower, my boy... ahhh, yessss... that's it. Ye grow more skilled everyday...*)

"He was my SIRE, ya bloody TWIT! That's a DAMN SIGHT MORE INTIMATE THAN THIS!!!" I shout at her, waving my cigarette at her naked form, "YOU DON'T KNOW A DAMN THING ABOUT MISSING HIM! You've been apart for, what, two YEARS? HE'S MY BLOOD, AND I'VE BEEN WITHOUT HIM FOR A *HUNDRED*!"

I can't believe how mad I am. Mad with jealousy, loneliness, that old, long-forgotten longing, and now resentment. I clutch the cigarette between my teeth and yank my pants back on, leaping to my feet in the same motion. I want to kill her. I want to rip her apart, limb from limb. As much as I wanted to be inside her a few minutes ago, now I can't get far enough away fast enough.

And she's still sitting there, staring at me with that funny stupid look on her face in all her unveiled Slayer (Sire's Mate) Glory.

"WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT???" I scream at her. There's nothing left of my shirt, so I just pull on my coat and start to stomp off.

"Spike! Will... wait."

Her use of my given name -- the name He always used -- freezes me in my tracks, just like it's Him that said it. An order I can't ignore. But I refuse to turn around.

I hear her get to her feet and put on what's left of her outfit, and then she's beside me, her little hand on my arm.

I finally look down at her. She's so small, so young, and I can suddenly understand my Sire's mind-numbing desire to protect her. But I still hate the bitch. I'm so jealous of her, I could spit. I love her, too. Much like my psychotically confused feelings for Him. Like they're one and the same goddamned being.

"You love him too," she says.

I snort. Demons don't love. And they sure as Hell don't love cruel, sadistic (tender) progenitors who'd just as soon peel the skin off your carcass as look at you. Even less their whiney, simpy, soul-eyed do-gooder alter egos.

"Yeah," I reply, so soft, I'm not sure if she could have heard.

She nods. "It's funny. I don't miss Riley. I mean, I do... I miss having... someone..." She shakes her head a little, probably realizing how fucking pathetic that sounds. Then her eyes meet mine again, and there's the life I was looking for. It's sorrow, it's pain, but it's life.

Oh, the cost. I feel like my dead heart's been ripped wide open. Is it for her? For Him? Does it matter?

"Riley left me," she goes on, "But all I can think about is Angel leaving me. Why?"

I don't know if she's asking why her head's all fucked up and her priorities twisted, or why my bloody idiot Sire abandoned her. I shrug and take a wild guess.

"Probably figured it was the best thing for everyone."

(*He's gone, Spike, so just stop ASKING ME! Believe me, it's for the best, what he is now... you don't want to see him.*)

Buffy gives another wise little nod. "Yeah, I guess."

We walk back to her house in thoughtful silence. I thought I was over this decades ago. Haven't given the plonker more than a passing thought in what, 2, 3 years? Some demons just can't be exorcised, I guess.

But why now? That's what I want to know. Obviously everything that's happened in the last year has led up to this very night, me and the Slayer walking down the street with our guts hanging out, both missing the same damn ghost. Why this tickling in my blood? Why did a simple scrog with the hottest woman on the planet end up opening some floodgates into my Sire issues?

The phone is ringing as we walk through the door. Her mum and the chit are off on some weekend getaway or something, so she rushes in to answer it. I follow, locking the door behind me, and help myself to a good, tall glass of her mother's finest double malt. Then another. And another, in quick succession. Less than the time it takes for her to say "Hello?"

I down another quickly. Buffy's quiet, listening. Don't like that one bit. Her face drops. I pour myself another, try to pretend it's the booze or the sex that's making my skin too tight, and my blood even itchier. Another shot.

"What?!" she gasps, "When?"

I stop with my seventh glass halfway to my lips. I turn slowly, and by the stricken look on her face, there's only one thing that whoever's on the other end of the line could be talking about.

"What do you mean, you don't know where he is? How could you just let him go?!"

She's shouting, frantic. I'm frozen to the spot. But not too frozen to drink that whiskey. I have a feeling I'm going to need it.

"No, I know. I'm sorry, just... Okay... Cordy, calm down, please. We're coming. We'll leave right now. Don't go anywhere."

Buffy slams the phone down at the same moment that I set my glass on the counter.

She moves like lightning, grabbing me by the hand and pulling me back toward the door. I grab the Scotch on the way.

"What the Hell is this then?" I managed as she drags me out, scratching a quick note and tossing it on the foyer table as we pass.

I'm asking, but I already know (no, not Him...), and I know it's bad -- world off its axis bad--because that's what the itching and humming and all the rest have been about.

The Slayer stops. Looks at me. "Where's your car?"

My... I haven't thought about the DeSoto in months. Dunno if the damn thing even runs anymore. "At the mansion."

"Let's go."

I finally pull back. "Hey, wait, there, pet. Don't you think you better tell me what the Hell's going on?"

She looks at me again. Fire in her eyes. Fire, always, for Him. "Angel's in trouble. He's disappeared. We have to find him."

I don't argue anymore. That's all she had to say.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angel flounders for a hold on sanity and self-definition.

It's been a long time since I've done anything that could be considered prowling. Slipping from shadow to shadow with sword and stake concealed in the folds of my coat. When I was a hunter, my only weapons were hands and teeth.

No more. I am another creature, now. Not man, not demon. Not animal, not hunter. Aimless violence. Undirected fury.

I don't know what I'm looking for. I don't know anything anymore but that I have to move. I have to kill something or drink something or fuck something. Maybe all three. Soon. Now. Or I'll explode.

I move because I can't sit anymore. I can't think. Can't brood on all the things that have failed in me. In my mission. I can't sit in that place that's meant for a man. There's nothing left of me but beast. Monster. Thing.

Things don't live in warm, tidy rooms with clean, cool sheets on soft beds and balconies that overlook the silent, sparkling vista of a living city (mine). Beasts don't own hotels or have dear friends or sacred destinies or eternal soulmates. Monsters only exist. Hunt. Destroy. Walk and rot.

I prowl, I walk, and I refuse to think. I ignore the whispers of betrayal and death and failure... the incitement to chaos. I feel nothing but the biting winter wind on my dead skin, and a lust whose origin I can't determine anymore -- is it for sex or blood or violence or power? Does it matter? I hear nothing. I see nothing. I taste nothing.

I can't remember what caring felt like... though I know it wasn't so long ago that I did. I've lost track of the days. I cut the ties, let myself dangle freely in the wind, in the incessant movement of time, no one but the sky and ancient instinct to tell me "day" or "night", nothing but my stomach cramping, telling me to feed (rage). And the burning goes on. The need. Find. Kill (Why are they gone?) Annihilate. Ease the craving.

I'm a fool. That much I recall. All the rest is blood and pain (a glimmer of faces) and just... nothing. But I remember I am just a slave bitch to the Powers That Be.

If they were corporeal, I'd take this sword to them. Or maybe string them up from the ceiling, bleed them slowly with tiny pinhole fang pricks (make a fool of me. Fuck with the demon, get the teeth.) while I break each of their bones, from smallest to largest, all the while promising them fairness... mercy... reward... as they scream.

Fuck you and your destiny. Dangling Shanshu carrot. Bullshit. This ass won't haul for you, anymore.

I'm so gone in the anger, a car's horn brings me back. I'm standing in the middle of the street, inches from being splattered on the pavement. It wouldn't kill me (too bad), but the idea of Final Death is fascinating in a way I had forgotten (*I'll never forget!*) existed. How many decades did I pass contemplating stepping out into the warmth of the sunlight, burning away the pain, the soul, with the shell? (*I wish I wished you dead! I don't! I can't...*) But I was too weak, even, for that... too full of fear of damnation (*You damned me...*) to do the deed. (the snow. a miracle. a sign. needed. wanted. purpose.)

I walk on.

I wandered for two years after the Curse. And when I left Darla (*You disgust me!*), I walked for another fifteen before I came to these shores. Here in the West, some years... (*Take them all...*) Then East. I hid. Wandered. Waited to die. (*Look at you! This is the stink of death you're giving off, here!*)

Then a tacky little demon in a cheap fedora offered me a whole new doom, and called it a purpose. (*She's gonna have a tough time of it, that Slayer. She's just a kid.*) If I knew how to find him, I'd kill that bastard, too. Become someone. Ha.

The next time I bother to pay attention, I'm on a barstool, a bottle of cheap whiskey and an unused glass on the bar before me. I remember this. It wasn't so long ago that I was a connoisseur of low-rent pubs. (*A drunken, whoring layabout, and a terrible disappointment to your parents!*) Not so long ago that I was human. (*I felt your heart beat...*) A man who loved nothing more than his women and his liquor. Life was so easy, then. (*A son is what I wished for! A man! And instead God gave me you!*)

I drink faster. 250 years... an eon... 225 pounds of dead flesh. It takes a lot of whiskey to forget.

A cloud of Chanel No. 5 (demon) sidles up... slinks up, beside me. She stinks like centuries of loneliness under all that perfume. Her hair is long and thick, blue-black like a raven's wing, her eyes purple like fine wine grapes. (lovely. delicious.) Fine, regal features, full mouth pulled back in a bitter mockery of a smile. She says something about hating these places. Don't I? She means it as a joke. I shrug. (*You smell so good... so warm... I miss that.*)

"I know who you are," she says. "Vampire with a soul, the face of an angel. How sad."

I motion to the bartender. He brings another bottle. Takes away the glass. Refills her Smirnoff and lemon.

She tells me her name is Alais. I don't care. She already knows mine (help the hopeless), so I don't bother speaking. I polish off another bottle before her ice cubes melt (*William, listen to me, boy. Ya need ta control yer drinkin... alcohol makes ya slow... stupid.*). She stares at me with those eyes and a wry, knowing smile. I ask her if she wants to go somewhere and fuck. (*Make love to me, Angel... I need you...*) She laughs, a voice so close to human, I wonder how much of her blood really isn't. She takes my hand (warm) and leads me out into the street. Did I pay the bill? Rain is falling. Alais doesn't blink at the flash of broadsword from inside my coat. Tough broad. Old. Seen it all.

The need to kill is dulled by the whiskey, the violence becomes... something other... but the lust is sharpened. She lives nearby. She leads me upstairs, where it's dark and neat. She turns on a dim lamp, casts shadows over the simple furniture. She politely recounts my life story to me (*Once upon a time, der was a vampire... and he was the meanest vampire in all de land...*) , and asks about the Curse as she pours us a drink.

I don't give a fuck about the Curse, and I tell her so. When I say it, her eyes widen slightly... any but a predator would never notice the change... the faint odor of fear.

"Maybe this isn't such a good idea," she says. Alais thinks maybe I've lost my soul already... not such a eunuch, eh? I'm the Scourge of Goddamn Europe, and she's brought me home to screw her brains out, only to maybe find herself skinned alive, her pelt hung over the shower curtain to dry while I eat her eyeballs and suck that brain out through the empty sockets...

I don't bother to tell her about Perfect Happiness.

Maybe she's right. Maybe she is in danger. Fuck, eviscerate, it's all the same. I laugh. She seems strangely reassured by the sound, which rings hollow in my ears, like I'm inside a tunnel (*That light was so bright...*). She gives up the glass. I gulp it before she even sits. She immediately pours another. Makes a joke about my constitution. Polite hostess. The warm haze of flesh and intoxication. Blind Lust. (*It's not enough time!*)

"You can kill me if you want, Angel," she murmurs. "I'm old. I'm ready to go. But first, I want..."

She wants. Wants to die? Wants me to kill her? For a moment, there's a flash in me... shock? Horror? (*I won't let you die! Drink!*) Pity? Recognition of a kindred soul? (*Go ahead! It should be nothing for ya... put the blade to the wall.*) I don't know, and it's gone before I can care.

"I've seen you around over the years," she purrs, "I've always thought you were so... beautiful..." (*Sire... you're so... exquisite... beautiful...*) She reaches up, a warm, gentle, wanting hand on my cheek, and there's that feeling again, a wrenching, this time, a pain. Touch. (*Oh. I didn't even notice...*) I growl. Alais doesn't flinch. She's not afraid anymore. There's only desire in her, the vague haze of drunkenness. Another vodka. The lamp goes out. Shadows.

Predator quick, I'm on her, pushing her back on the couch, stripping her bare (*Can unlace a corset in five seconds flat with me right hand tied behind me back, I can!*), tearing my own clothes off in the process.

My God. She's so warm. So soft. For a moment, I forget to forget, and I see hazel eyes, wide, innocent, so trusting, staring up at me with love and tears and rain. Golden hair tousled, breath quick. (*Show me... Angel... please...*)

I. Don't. Care.

I don't care if I lose my soul. I'm not sure I can, because I think maybe it's already dead, frozen, broken beyond repair. The two of us-- this ancient, desolate demon and I--naked, skin to skin, is too sweet... a perfect abyss to hide in, to fall into. Her breasts round and firm and full and so human... the nipples pebble up under my lips, and I whimper like a motherless child (*My parents were great -- tasted a lot like chicken!*) as I nurse at them. She wraps her long legs around my waist, slips a fine hand down to wrap around my cock, and sighs as she guides me into that wet... hot... tight... Ohhhhh... it's been so long... so long... (*Buffy... God, you feel so... good...*)

She wants me to fill her, this demon woman. She wants me to fill her emptiness. She clutches and claws and demands, thrusting up at me, driving me deep (*Yes, Sire! Harder! Please!*), begging me.

I have nothing but flesh to give. But I give it. I pound into her. I fill her. I do have it... I have so much... I fill her with my cock that's ached since a cold November morning, and the rage that there is no hope, no purpose, no reward. I drill her with my hate and all the death and the loss and the never-ending hunger, and all the things denied. I feel it now (*Everything you're going through... everything you've gone through...*). Everything rushes through me... out of me... into her. Darla's resurrection (*Now I find I need you... just like I've always needed you.*) Her redemption (*You'll never be alone again....*). Her murder at the fangs of my Childe (*He's not Daddy!*) My fault. I feel all the regret and the sorrow and the worry of my friends and fury at the Powers and missing Buffy with a tearing, wrenching agony, and remorse for the way I abused Spike and Dru and Penn and God, how many others....

Alais cries out-- in pain or empathy or pleasure, I don't know, and I don't care. She begs for me to give it to her, and I do. Fucking this demon, this stranger -- it's Heaven and Hell and Purgatory all in one, and I know it won't fill me or fix me, but for now it'll drain me... Take the edge off. Take the last of me. Take it all, bitch! (*No, really. I thought you were a pro.*)

And last, the demon rises... senses razor sharp, bloodlust renewed and climax exploding... I tear into her throat (I AM THE DEMON! THE DEMON IS ME!). Her blood is thick and sweet, hotter than human, her hands tangled in my hair, her inner muscles clenching me tight. I want to hurt her. I hammer into her. I want to love her. I drink from her. I want to feel her heart stop. I want to eat it raw, in front of her dying eyes. I want... She screams in ecstasy, and I roar in rage and pump the last of me inside of her, cold and dead. Alone. No purpose. No friends. No weapons. No hope. What's left?

She holds me in the darkness while I weep. She strokes my hair tenderly, like a lover, like a friend, (like Buffy) and tells me that everything is all right. There's always hope, she says. Always...

A stranger. She doesn't know. No one knows anymore. No one remembers but me, and soon I'll forget (just like her). Better off forgotten.

I creep out just ahead of the dawn, crawl into the sewers. I chase out a nest of fledglings and huddle into their filth to sleep.

I don't care. Nobody cares. There's no point to any of it at all, and nothing can convince me otherwise.

I curl up in the waste, feel it ooze into my hair, my skin, my clothes, the hole where my heart and soul used to be.

Death will find me, someday. She has to.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

My eyes snap open at sunset. The biological imperative irresistible. Unavoidable. The blood never forgets.

I'm soaked to the bone, twice as dead as 12 hours before when I lay crying in the arms of a comforting stranger (sin, betrayal, infidelity). Twice as empty, so I can't even feel the rage anymore. Just the hunger.

Again, it's rats. So much of my unlife defined by their wiggling, wire-tailed, diseased bodies. The bitter, thin (hopeless) taste of their blood. The strangled death squeal, the quick draining, the corpse tossed away like chicken bones (*What are you eating, like, a rat a month?*). I don't even want the blood. It tastes like corruption (death) and failure, and it satiates nothing.

I've always been weak. I've never been anything else. One rat, to take the pain away. No more. Someone stole my coat while I slept (*Why is Wesley wearing my coat?*) and I don't care. I don't remember why I ever wore it. It never kept away the cold (the pain).

I walk. Climb out of the sewer and into the bustling (living) thrumming of the LA night. I wanted this city to swallow me, when I arrived. I want it to devour me, now. I watch the humans scurrying (like rats) and wonder why they bother. There's no Heaven. No God. No eternal reward, no meaning at all. Just this. Right now. (*Of course I know what it means! It means pain, and suffering and disease, and death!*) Short, painful lives, souls shriveling, hearts crying out for something (*The same love still infects our hearts...simple death won't change that.*), anything to fill the endless void. Don't they know?

The night things are worse... the demons, the vampires, the other monsters, the always-ravenous. Their nothingness is wild, mindless. I see them skulking in shadows, waiting... for blood, for violence (death... get it, take it.), always waiting. Like I've been waiting, and it never comes.

What happened to the things I wanted? The people and other creatures I cherished? Even the pain is gone, the guilt, my constant companion of centuries. The rage, gone. I walk all night, searching. Something is coming (they're coming.) I should look for them... my childer? My mother? (My lovers, coming...) I don't know... kill them, before...

Kill who? Before what? What's coming? I don't remember. I don't care. All the faces of sweet dream and screaming nightmare are dulled, blurred. Another dawn threatens. I crawl back to the muck to sleep. Another dusk calls, and I rise. Another dawn. Another dusk. How many? I forget. Undead automaton. Monster of habit.

Soon, I don't rise anymore. I sink into the squalor and stop. No rats, no walking, not even waiting. Don't feel the thing take my wallet, my shoes, my watch. Beat me with something heavy. Sharp. Don't care.

Trappings. Man things. Don't care.

Four nights? Six? Ten? I drink with the wino who gets lost down here, and spare him by drinking him dry when his bottle is gone, and it doesn't fill me, but only makes me itch. Later... a day, a week, a century? A fledgling. Little blonde boy (old enough to shave, old enough to kill) with big, blue eyes and fine, chiseled features. Confused, lost, Sire dead (*You were my SIRE, man, my YODA!*). He shares his heroin. I haven't fed since the wino... the booze, the smack, the ugly, useless blood... Two pinpricks? Three? Just a pinprick, there'll be no more... Was that a song? Am I numb? He sucks me tenderly... calls me Master... I fuck him and drink him and pretend he's mine, and he feeds from me and cries...

Did I used to cry? Did I want to hurt him? (Spike... Will... my boy... my son... blue eyes... cool skin, like powder. Why is he crying?) He's tight and cold and dead, and there's not even the emptying, this time.... He calls out, but I am silent. Nothing.

The youngster goes with sunset, leaving the empty needle, crusted with his blood, and my blood and I don't know what else. I lean back against the wall and wonder if it's cold above, watch myself from outside myself... Dead Soul peering at the husk of a corpse. The needle breaks in my skin. Jagged glass draws blood... I pull it along my arm... is it my arm? The flesh separates, there should be pain, but it's over there somewhere, with the Dead Irish Brachen demon, the loyal black street kid, the former May Queen, the earnest Englishman. Back there with my soul and the beautiful, golden Slayer and the sky-eyed platinum blonde Childe of my blood. Gone with the soul of my lover, my Sire, and the Gypsy computer teacher and the hundreds and thousands whose names I never knew and whose faces once haunted me, but now all that's left is this.

Crimson rivulets of things I don't remember. One arm, then the other. Then legs -- thighs, calves. Stomach and chest... drip... drip... drip. It doesn't smell like anything. Dust in my veins.

I don't care about the blood anymore. Not even that single constant, and all I feel is empty when the wounds heal... slow, because there's something I should be doing, and that's gone, too... Why can't I die?

No hunter. No hero. The demon too, has left me. There's an empty space--more vacuum--where the hunt, and the howl, and the lust used to be. I don't wait for Death anymore. She'll never come. (they'll come.) I draw the sharp pictures in my impervious flesh and try to care and watch them heal, and all that's left are the opening and closing of wounds that don't hurt, tearing a corpse's skin. I can't find the pain. (they'll come.)

My God, why hast thou forsaken me?

Soon I can't remember to care about that, either. The broken needle falls to the floor and I fall beside it.

Someday...


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buffy reflects on her feelings for Angel, and what ties herself, him, and Spike together.

This wasn't the way it was supposed to go.

I remember, when I was little, my mom and dad used to read me fairy tales before bed. I'm not sure why -- some kind of weird brainwashing thing? I don't know. But the stories always promised every little girl that she was a Princess. That she would have One True Love. That the handsome, pure Prince of her heart would always come and rescue her from the Scary Things, carry her off on his magnificent steed, and they would live Happily Ever After in the castle.

I love my parents. I'm glad they're alive, and that I have them. I'm glad I didn't kill them -- directly or otherwise -- unlike some vampires I know. But I still have to wonder, what is it in them that decides it's okay to never tell us everything?

For instance, Mom never bothered to tell me that sometimes the handsome Prince has a delicately tethered demon living inside of him, or that the Scary Things win just as often as they lose, or that Happily Ever After is a lie.

Is riding off into the sunset a lot to ask, considering? With everything we've suffered, shouldn't we get that Happily Ever After? Shouldn't his eternity, and my short life, include each other? Don't we deserve at least that much, after everything we've done for the world?

And under what circumstances is it fair and right for the Prince to decide that he's just not good enough for the Princess, and instead of carrying her home to his castle to be blissfully happy forever, he turns and walks away, disappearing into the smoke of an apocalyptic battle with her blood in his veins, and her heart crushed beneath his feet?

Mother Goose must have forgotten that part. Just like she forgot the story where the Princess ends up driving a 50-year old tank of a car with no power steering that she can barely see through the windows of, because they're blocked out with black paint to protect the car's vampire owner. Barreling into the night with the Prince's immortal demon Childe and lover passed out beside you on the seat because he drank a stolen quart of your mother's whiskey in under 20 minutes. They never tell you that you might fuck said demon because so much of you is so desperately empty for the Prince, that you'll do anything to be close to him.

They never mention that the Prince might go insane and disappear, and that the Princess will be forced to relive every sweet and painful moment they spent together, and realize, maybe too late, just how hard she should have fought to keep him by her side.

Then there's the part about the Prince spending 500 years in Hell because the Princess loved him and had to run him through with a sword. And how the Princess followed the Prince's imperative to find someone who could "take her into the light" and "make love to her", and that was about all she ended up with. The stories never mention the other prince and how his kind, loving soul got crushed in the process for the crime of not being Him.

Riley was right -- I never loved him. I never should have let him fall in love with me in the first place. But something inside of me--maybe that poor, disillusioned Princess who's still waiting for the fairy tale to come true?--remembers what it was like to watch the Prince walk away, and maybe I just didn't want another man to disappear from my life. I didn't want to always be the one left alone.

So I ran after him. It was too late, though, and now I think maybe that was for the best. What would I have said to him, tonight? "Angel's flipped out and disappeared, and I swear this doesn't have anything to do with us, but I have to go and rescue him." Probably wouldn't have made Riley feel too good about himself.

He just wasn't my Prince, no matter how hard I pretended he was. No matter what I told Angel.

God, I'm so sorry for what I said that night in the police station. I'm sorry I didn't apologize when he did, and he didn't even have anything to apologize for. But no... everything between us has always been about me. Angel always put me first, and so did I, from the moment I first saw his face in the shadows behind the Bronze, to the night we made love (God, was that the only time I ever really made love?) to his leaving the only home he'd known for a hundred years. Always about me. I would take it all back , if I could, if I knew then what I know now. I would have done everything so differently.

No. No, I wouldn't. I wouldn't change a moment of it. I'm still selfish.

And now? What's the result of me only thinking of me? The Sire Angel killed to save my life was brought back from Hell, and... I don't even know what happened. It's been so long since he and I really talked. I remember how he used to sit there, his eyes shining with something I didn't understand, and listen to me go on and on about... what? I can't remember all those problems and complaints that used to be so earth-shattering, anymore. That's how really important they were. But Angel always listened patiently, and soothed and held me, imparting his sweet wisdom... He knew everything about me. Everything. He always knew exactly what to say, even when I didn't listen.

And now I realize I never knew anything about him at all but what he did or didn't feel about me. Typical.

Spike snorts in his sleep, as if to remind me that he's still there. A walking dead reminder of every goddamned thing that's ever gone wrong in my life. I want to blame it all on him, I really do, but I can't. Because I'm the Princess. I'm the blind, selfish moron. It's my fault, and nobody else's.

It's my fault that Angel's disappeared, and that he's lonely and hopeless, and that Cordelia was crying so hard on the phone I couldn't understand half of what she was saying.

My fault. Mine. All me.

So, I drive. It's time for me to be the Slayer, to really take responsibility for my place in the world. To show my Prince that I love him and only him, and all the rest was a lie. To show him that I was listening, and maybe now I'm starting to understand.

"We there yet?"

Impatient, slightly drunk, really scared, sleepy voice from beside me in the dark. Spike's a child, not just a Childe. A little boy who had everything stolen from him, too. He never apologizes for who and what he is. He never regrets. He loves me, in his own way. But it wasn't until tonight that I really understood why.

There are things that my friends... maybe even my Watcher... don't really know about vampires. I don't think they know about the Blood. All they know is that when you can see it on the outside, it's Bad. They don't know what it feels like to have your lover draw it out of your veins in a pulsing rush. They don't know that it tastes like new pennies suspended in corn syrup. And they certainly don't know that it binds people so tightly together that nothing -- not a hundred years, and certainly not 200 miles -- can separate them.

"No. We've still got about a half an hour, I think. We have to stop and get gas again," I tell him. The Prince's bastard offspring. The Childe of his Blood.

"Shoulda stolen a Hyundai," he grumbles. It's the second time we've had to stop this heap already.

As I watch the numbers on the pump crawl by, I think... every second we're standing here is one more second that Angel is in pain... every minute, we're closer to losing him forever.

Spike looks up from the gas nozzle. His face is perfectly impassive, telling me nothing about how he feels about all this. Two hours ago, it was screwed up in agony and ecstasy, and there were tears pouring out of his eyes, and he was sobbing Angel's name as he fucked me.

It was good... not poetry and flowers good, but... "I hurt inside and only you can heal me with this pain" good. It's really hard to explain. But the one thing I got out of it is the realization that no matter how much he complains about Angel, he still loves him.

"We'll find him, Pet. We'll bring him back," he promises. His cold hand rests on my shoulder, and I can feel 62.3 degrees of worry right through my coat. "Don't worry."

Don't worry. Don't worry about that pesky oxygen, Buffy. You'll only die if you can't breathe.

"I know," I reply. I can't even let myself imagine that he is wrong. Angel can't disappear forever. He can't die. The idea is too painful to let into my head. A world without him walking somewhere on its face just isn't a world worth being the Slayer for.

We'll find him. I don't know how... or where... or what condition he'll be in. Right now I don't care.

* "Buffy, it's Cordy. I... There's, um...can you come... *SOB* Buffy, he's... he's GONE! He fired us all and he's gone totally crazy and nobody's been able to find him for days! He fired us! *choke* and D-darla... They brought her b-back... *Sob* and she was in his dreams, and he wasn't sleeping, *snuffle* and he just... He bit Kate and then Drusilla turned her, and he let them kill all the lawyers, and now he's GONE!"*

Like one piece of really confusing bad news right after the other.

The funny thing is, I already knew. I knew that something had gone wrong with him. I felt it in my bones. In my blood.

See what I mean about the Blood?

Which means that Spike knew, too. I wonder if he was ignoring it as hard and as purposefully as I was? For weeks, I put that weird tickling, itching in my skin off to exhaustion, to stress, to my sister, my mom, my Duty, my period. Not enough protein. Not enough green vegetables. Not enough aerobic exercise. A nightmare. A sad movie. It couldn't be Angel, because, after all, I was living a normal life, right? He was of the past.

The idea is as funny and sad now as it was two years ago. God... has it been two years? Shouldn't it have stopped hurting by now?

I look at Spike, the way his face looks paler than usual in the fluorescent lights of the gas station, how sad his eyes are, even as he smirks at me like he knows my every dirty little secret (which he does), and I remember:

A century later, it still hurts him. A whole human lifetime, plus thirty years, and his heart is still broken. I couldn't exist that long feeling like this.

We have to find him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I once asked Oz why he was so quiet all the time. He gave me that "too wise for a guy my age" look, and said, "I'm listening to my inner monologue."

I wondered what he talked to himself about, because everything that came out of his mouth was either wet-your-pants funny, or so important to what was going on, you couldn't ignore it. There's no one left in our group now with that kind of blunt wisdom. There's no one left who says those things that should or have to be said, but never are.

Except Spike. Where he used to spend all his time practicing to be the very best Big Bad he could be, now he's becoming a Master Button Pusher.

Like tonight. They way he just picked and poked at me when I didn't want to think about or feel that nagging sensation that something was... off. The little voice inside me that kept insisting Something way beyond the fact that my lover left me... something below my sister being some kind of an otherworldly force, or that I didn't finish half my classes last semester, or that my mother could have died of brain cancer, or that my father didn't even bother to call and see how she was... and, oh yeah, the fact that there's a powerful "She-Who-Cannot-Be-Named" Demigod Demon Chick out for my blood. This was something else that I didn't even want to acknowledge, and there Spike was, forcing it all out of me...

Moping is my favorite way to not cope. It's an escape. Playing chess with one part of my brain, and not thinking with the other was a really good way to forget that what was wrong with my world was something that came from deep in my cells. I don't need another crisis to deal with, I kept telling myself. I don't want to think about my abandonment issues, or how much I miss Angel, or the fact that by losing Riley, I had failed him, somehow... or that something was really, really wrong.

But Spike couldn't just leave me to my denial. He had to make me process, make me listen, make me feel, and all of that just exploded out of me and ended up making me rip his clothes off, right there in front of God and all the dead people in the cemetery. He always does those things... those fucking annoying things that make me want to take his head off with a butter knife, at the same time that he makes me feel better. He drives me up the wall.

And somehow, I still care about him. He's my... friend... sort of. Part of me, and part of Angel, too, and now... now he's technically my lover, even though I really don't think that what we did had as much to do with him and I as it did Angel.

Exit 24, "Silver Lake." I pull off the highway, and whack Spike on the arm.

"HEY!" he yelps, sitting bolt upright. "What?"

"Which way?"

"Which way what?"

I sometimes wish my glares were solid. And made of pointed wood. "The directions," I snap, "In your hand. Which fucking way do I turn???"

I'm all out of patience. We just don't have time for him to be groggy. He might be immortal, technically, but all the forever in the world won't save our hearts if Angel is gone.

"Take a right, here. Next light, left. Go eight blocks to the..." he reads.

"Hold it. One turn at a time. Just... please. Stay awake."

He grunts and sits up in the seat, blue eyes straight ahead on the road. He's suddenly not smiling anymore. Can he feel them? His family? His sister-lover, his Sire-lover, his GrandSire-- were they lovers too? Is lover even the right word for what they are?

Oh... my... God. I had sex with Spike.

Spike and Angel were lovers.

Spike loves Angel.

Three realizations -- or maybe, first really realized realizations-- like three rapid, full-strength punches to my gut, and I almost drive right off the road with the stunning jolt of it.

"Bloody Hell, woman!" Spike bitches, yanking the wheel back, "Arabs got it right -- birds shouldn't be allowed to drive! Pull the Hell over!"

I do, but not because he said so. I do it because I'm suddenly shaking so hard, I can't keep my hands on the steering wheel, and if we have a wreck and die, then there'll be no one left to find Angel.

Spike doesn't waste any time arguing or comforting me. He drags me up over his lap and dumps me in the passenger seat beside him, and takes my place driving. Fast.

That saying from sex ed --- you know, the one that sounds like that old shampoo commercial? "You're not just sleeping with one person, you're sleeping with everybody they've slept with, and everybody they slept with, and so on and so on and so on..." It just took on a whole new, really unpleasant meaning... And the Blood Ties thing makes my head spin.

I fucked Spike. Right there in the graveyard where Angel and I used to hunt and neck like horny teenagers... only with stakes and vampire dust and stuff.

Angel. It all comes back to Angel. Earlier tonight, last week, last year, four years ago, a hundred years ago, right now... it's all about this one vampire that we love. We're all caught in this web together, and I have no idea how we could get out, or if we could, or if the platinum blonde vampire son of the Great Love of My Life and I even want to.

We have to save him, because I don't know what will happen to us if we don't.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Angel used to love to give me poetry. Sometimes he would read it to me in front of the fireplace at the mansion. Sometimes I would find little notes in his old-fashioned handwriting on heavy parchment paper, tucked into my locker at school when I got there in the morning. Once he gave me a book. I lost it, just like I lost him. I bought another copy, just to know what he was thinking, but it wasn't the same. He told me once that I was poetry, to him.

I never understood. How could I? I was a little kid who'd never been outside California, except for two weeks in Michigan every summer. I was 100% American teenager... I liked "Beverly Hills: 90210." I flunked French. The only unusual blip in my life was the fact that I killed vampires and their assorted Hellbeast buddies for a living. Poetry, to me, was Backstreet Boys' songs. What did I know about love? About finding that one other person in the universe who completes you? The only one who can always make you laugh or cry or sigh... How could I have known how precious his loyalty, friendship, and love really were?

He was 243. Two. Hundred. And. Forty. Three. He had seen every square inch of the world. He met the poets, the authors, the composers. He saw the plays and the operas during their first runs. He told me that he once laughed in Bram Stoker's face. He'd tasted the wines of a hundred countries. Drank the blood of a dozen cultures. He had been utterly and completely alone but for his guilt and his ghosts and his self-loathing for a hundred years. Ten times my life span, almost.

Alone, until me.

Of course I couldn't understand. Maybe I still really don't. Like the difference between knowing why he left me, and believing it. I never forgave him that. I forgave him Angelus, and all those months of torture... how could I not? But I never forgave him for shattering my fairy tale. For not staying and trying. For smashing my heart into little pieces.

I wish I could tell him. I wish I had told him. I hope I'll get another chance. I promise I won't waste the next one by being angry and talking without thinking first. I need this... maybe he does, too. However it happened, he is in my blood, just as he is in Spike's, and I need this chance to make things right between us.

There's this one poem he read to me... right now, my heart remembers it, as I think of this man that I love, and all the things that tie us together. All the things that keep us apart. I look at Spike, driving with his brow furrowed, an unlit Marlboro clenched between his teeth, and I think about how the same barriers to Angel are reversed, for him. For both of us, the soul is the thing that is always in the way. The thing that has robbed us of what we love. But the Blood still ties us together, and we all understand and know each other, somehow.

I remember as we drive to search for him. To save him. I wonder if Spike has things he left unsaid. I wonder if he was remembering and regretting when he was inside me, and he called out Angel's name.

This poem... this one little song... its all about him, and us. I think about it, and I watch the last miles to Cordelia's house pass, and I pray as I recite it. Please hold on, Angel. We're coming. We love you. Don't leave us again.

*somewhere I have never traveled, gladly beyond any experience,  
your eyes have their silence:  
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,  
or which I cannot touch because they are too near.

your slightest look will easily unclose me  
though I have closed myself as fingers,  
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens  
(touching skillfully, mysteriously) her first rose.

or if your wish be to close me, I and my life  
will shut very beautifully,  
suddenly, as when the heart of this flower imagines the snow  
carefully, everywhere descending.

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals  
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture compels me  
with the colour of its countries; rendering death and forever  
with each breathing.

(I do not know what it is about you that closes and opens;  
only something in me understands  
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)  
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands.*


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spike whines, complains, reminisces, slogs through the sewers, and does what needs to be done to save his Sire.

I jump the curb when I pull up outside the address Cordelia gave us. Buffy's out of the car and halfway up the steps before I even cut the engine, but I can still smell the blood in the air from where she bit right through her lip to keep from crying.

I couldn't possibly give one less fuck about her pain. Far as I'm concerned, it's right that she feel like shit. Hell if I know how this is all her fault, but it's got to be. She's the damned Slayer, she's my Sire's damn mate, she's the one who got him all fucked up in the head to begin with, so, yeah, I'll blame her.

Easier, better, and far more satisfying than blaming myself. Not that I would.

I take my time climbing out of the car, taking a quick look in the back seat to see if there's any bottles with a drop of hooch left in 'em. Naturally, there's not, and that's why I've got a headache like the damn robot soul's going off in my skull.

Got nothing to do with Angelus, though, because I don't care about what's going on. In fact, I chant it to myself like a mantra as I follow Buffy. Ignore her standing on the top step, glaring at me with her arms crossed.

Guess we're not gonna go steady, eh, Buff?

I don't care. She was just a hobby to pass some time, and He's got a soul and a pack of humans to take care of him. Why should I care?

"Don't have to wait for me, pet. Fairly sure you can work the doorbell all by yourself, you bein' the Slayer and all," I tell her.

She waits until I'm beside her. "I don't need you getting staked tonight, okay? Cordy and Wesley don't know about the chip," she says. 'And that I fucked you out in the green grass of beautiful Sunny Rest,' she doesn't say.

And then I realize... huh. She thinks they don't know about me? Must be old Giles never told her about Angel's bi-weekly "Checking Up On the Hellmouth" -- ha ha, yeah right -- phone calls.

"Yeah, sure. Whatever. Let's just get me a drink, then."

I don't care. None of this has anything to do with me, really. Wank's not my Sire anymore, and I'm pretty sure that I got over my little Slayer thing when I finally shot my wad in her. (so why the hell are you here?)

Buffy waits for me to pass and marches up behind me like she knows I'm about two seconds from turning around and going right back the way we just came. No reason for me to be here. They don't need me. She sure as Hell doesn't need me, and I know damn well my Sire'd rather be a Dustbuster-sized mess than have my help.

Bastard.

God, my head hurts. Somebody just stake me already. I have absolutely no interest in this wild goose chase, slogging around in the sewers and prowling the streets looking for the bloody Dark Avenger. One less White Hat -- okay by me.

I don't care. I don't care. I don't care.

I stand behind her like her damn party date as she rings the doorbell. This place is just gawd awful -- fake stucco and imitation Spanish clay roof tiles? Hard to believe Angelus -- "I've got to have the finest of everything, my boy, and so should you" Angelus-- actually spent time here on purpose, without his damn hoity toity head exploding.

Oh, wait. Not Angelus... fuckin' Angel. I don't give a rat's ass about that poncy fucker, and I bet he doesn't give a rat's ass about the authenticity of his digs, either. Doesn't matter, because I don't care.

Why do I have to keep telling myself that?

The bell doesn't even finish ringing before the door flies open and Cordelia flies out, straight into Buffy's arms, and starts ranting and raving something fierce. Which, I tell you, does nothing to help my headache. She stinks like Angel, too. Looks good, like she's gained some weight, and...

"What the Hell happened to your HAIR?" I yelp. Don't really mean to, it just sort of slips out. All that thick, beautiful chestnut hair... gone. Shame.

Her shorn head snaps up, and I have to take a step back. Cordelia Chase, worried, not sleeping, frantic, probably crying for a few days straight, is by far the scariest sight I've ever seen.

"W-w-why is h-h-he h-heeeeeeeeere?" she wails. Bint cant even keep it together long enough to get a simple question out before her and Buffy are bawling all over each other again.

Women.

I give the brunette a little shove. "Hey, there. This is all very touching, but do you think you could invite me in already so I can get a drink? I'm thirsty."

And I'll be damned if a can of Bud doesn't come flying right out the door at me!

"WHAT THE HELL?!" I shout above the blubbering, then crack it open and drain it in a couple of gulps.

In another second, my joy just multiplies, because here comes Scout Master Wesley, twice as pasty, and looking like he needs an enema ten times worse than usual.

"Spike..." he acknowledges me politely, "Thank you for coming so quickly."

I shrug. Still waiting for that invitation, here...

The Watcher gently leans down and speaks to Cordelia. "Delia, perhaps you should invite Spike in. We'd like to get back out, soon, and there's a great deal to discuss with Buffy and he before we do."

Buffy and Cordelia pull out of each other's arms (which would be incredibly interesting, under normal circumstances) and wipe one another's eyes like we're in a damn soap opera.

My Sire is bloody DYING, you IDIOTS! Can we cut the hysterics and get to WORK?

"Oh, bugger this," I snap, turn and stalk off, leaving them all staring after me. I'm going to find the ponce myself. Don't need a one of these wankers. Let them go play "Charlie's Angels" and have their little expositional meeting. I'm getting out on the streets and doing something.

I won't let my nancyboy Sire buy it, no matter how much I hate him.

Damn, my head hurts.

"Where the Hell do you think you're going?"

Buffy's got a death grip on my arm right as I'm about to take the first step. She fucking touches me, and there it all is again -- the memories, the pain, all that gut-wrenching fucking angst I spent the past two hours drowning. And me with no booze to re-drown them.

What the Hell did screwing this bitch DO to me?

I yank my arm away, and feel my demon-face slip on as I growl at her. "Keep your damn hands off me, Slayer!" I spit, and get back to leaving.

"Will... please don't. We need you. He needs you," she says, sweet and soft as you please, her voice all choked up from the crying.

That fucking bitch! I go completely cold at the sound of it. I can name at least a dozen times that I really, sincerely wanted to kill her over the years -- at least a couple of them tonight, in fact -- but never more than right in this split second. Where does she get off thinking she knows anything about me, or my Sire, and what all of this means?

I get in her face. "You little cunt!" Gotta give the fluff some points for not flinching. I'm so close, I can feel my voice bouncing off her skin. "Who the Hell do you think you are? Don't you dare use the Sire card on me, do you hear? I'm not your precious fucking knight in shining armor Angel -- guilt isn't going to work with me! Don't pretend that just because you fucked him once, and he drank you once puts you in any damn position to be acting like my damn MOTHER, all right? And if you call me by that name again, I'll suck your liver out with a straw, chip or no! Are we clear?"

God damn it, I'm CRYING again! Like a damn weepy woman! Buffy reaches up and wipes away the tears with her tiny fingertips and gives me a sad little smile that would turn Satan's black heart to mush.

"Okay, Spike," she says, "I'm sorry. Okay. Just... please stay with me. I need your help."

I shake her off and head back toward the apartment, where it looks like we've attracted a crowd. All those humans... lot of whom I don't know... all staring down at us, mortal and scared and bloody miserable. Three years ago, I would've been thinking, "Soup's on!" Now all I can think is that every single person up on that balcony smells like Angel.

"Let's just get this over with, all right?" I concede.

She takes my hand as we climb the steps, and gives it a squeeze. I let her, because, frankly, I just don't have the energy to argue.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I don't care. I don't care. I don't give one shit about that souled bastard. I hope he's a big pile of dust somewhere, and I hope that bloody Slayer dies of the heartbreak. I hope every one of those weak, slobbering humans back in that cheezy apartment building all cry so hard that their brains explode.

I hate them. Him worst of all. Him that's all that remains of my Sire.

I don't care. Let 'em all rot.

I keep telling myself that as I plod through the sewers under downtown bloody Los Angeles.

What the hell am I doing here? My boots soaked through and my coat smelling like human shit, and my headache's grown to the point where it's gonna crack my skull open and dribble my miserable grey matter all over the filthy ground.

I hate them. I hate the Slayer and her goddamn haunted green eyes, and I hate Cordelia, with bags under hers big enough to pack for a cruise around the world in. I hate that tosser Giles Jr., with his stiff upper lip and trembling shoulders like he's gonna burst into tears any minute. I hate that tall black kid who paced the apartment, itching to go just like I was, asking every ten bloody seconds, "When are we gonna quit yakkin' and do something?" I hate the little geek with the fucking cape, of all things, who just sat there looking numb as he called every bloody private detective in his little black book. I hate the damn ghost who did nothing for that whole fucking endless time we were sitting there but chuck one cheap can of beer after another at me.

Not that I didn't drink every one, mind you.

I hate all of this. And for the unlife of me, I can't figure out just what the Hell I'm doing here.

These damn sewers are twice as filthy as the ones in Sunnydale. Possibly the worst I've seen since Rome a century ago.

Rome. Oh, good... here come the memories again. The ancient aqueducts under Rome, where the shit is piled two feet high all over, and Darla made Him carry her so she wouldn't sully her precious goddamn kid leather shoes. Dru just sang her little songs and skipped along like we were off for a picnic, and said the tunnels smelt like her mummy's garden. Were we going to see mummy's garden? She had such pretty flowers, do you remember Daddy? I remember, love, He said. Then Angelus just goes back to grumbling about how he was going to tan me raw for getting us driven out of yet another city with my idiot antics, and I just smirked at the back of his head and drank my stolen port as we walked along.

Damn sewers. Like the bloody veins of my existence. Walked a million miles of septic in my life, I have. Getting from here to there in daylight, running from mobs and hunters and Slayers. Half the time, He was running right beside me, cursing me, and detailing just how He was going to beat me when we got away, because it was usually my fault we were running. Sometimes, I was running from Him. When I was in trouble, and His voice got all quiet, and he got that little half-smirk on His face that never reached His eyes, I knew I was really in for it. I wasn't just going to get a dry-fucking or a simple lashing. Too many times when He got like that, I ended up chained to the ceiling in His bedroom, Him skinning me with a boning knife, or poking little holes in my balls with sewing needles, smiling at me while I screamed. Then sometimes, when He was done, He'd beat me for dirtying his carpet. After a while, I saw that look, and I'd run. He'd always get over it before I came home.

I hate sewers.

I remember my first trip to SunnyHole, when I bought His sorry ass from that weasely snitch Willy, to save my Dru. Dragging his beautiful, bulky body through the muck, him stinking like misery and remorse and fear for the goddamn Slayer. I wanted to just rip his pretty head off and sprinkle the dust over my skin like baby powder. I kept thinking, how dare this thing walk around in my Sire's body, calling himself Angel, and then have the balls to play pet demon for that rotten little bitch, thumbing his perfect Roman nose at every goddamn thing he spent a good 50 years beating and fucking into me?

I can't describe the pure joy of chaining him up in my bedroom, and listening to him scream and plead while my princess tortured him. After a while, I just couldn't stop myself. I sent Dru off to play with her dolls and stood there looking down at him, all bloody and ragged, spitting blood -- our blood -- out on the floor like it meant nothing.

I never loved or hated that bastard more than I did at that moment. Never fucked him harder, either. Oh, Hell, who am I trying to kid? Angelus never let me within ten feet of his perfect Master ass. He was the Sire, I was the whelp, and no matter how much I begged, it just wasn't done.

But you better believe I fucked that miserable tyrant, soul and all, with all my considerable might while we waited for the moon to rise. I gave him back every damn ounce of pain he'd ever given me and then some, all the while thinking that the sweetest part would be watching him die after.

Shoulda been one of the finer nights of my life, don't you think? Giving it to the demon that made me, raised me, loved me, beat me senseless, then left me without a word with his sadistic bitch Sire and my poor, loopy Dru. Finally... FINALLY knowing what it felt like (damn luscious, it was) to bury my cock between those rock hard cheeks... tearing into his thick, corded, forbidden throat, stealing Sireblood as I came.

Should've been beautiful. Should've been right up there with slaughtering and drinking two Slayers, and the first time I made love to Dru, and the night the most beautiful, evil Irishman I'd ever seen drank me dry and then held me tenderly as I nursed from his wrist.

It wasn't. And do you want to know why? He didn't scream the way I used to scream when he fucked me. He didn't weep like a girl when I jerked him off and made him cum the way I used to weep when he did the same. When I was done, and I pulled my bloody, sticky cock out of him, licked his sweet blood from my lips, and looked at him, do you know what he did?

Nothing. Not a god damn thing. I asked him, "So, what do you think about that, *Sire*? *Master*, hm? Did you like that? Who's the goddamn Alpha now, Fluffy?"

And he looked up at me with those big, watery, goddamn soulful puppy brown eyes and said, with a blood-choked sigh, "I'm sorry, Will."

Sorry! I just goddamn RAPED him, DOMINATED him, DRANK HIS BLOOD WITHOUT PERMISSION, and violated every goddamn rule in the goddamn vampire bloody BIBLE, and *HE* was *SORRY*!

I kicked that insulting, condescending, lying, cheating piece of shit in the head until he collapsed and couldn't look at me with those eyes anymore. Then I locked myself in the sub basement and sobbed like a soddin' motherless twit for an hour.

And now, here I am, hunting the god awful sewers under the ugliest city on the planet, trying to save his sorry ass.

I keep asking myself why. Why should I care so damn much for that jammy git? Darla's his Sire, and it's her prerogative if she wants to drive him out of his holier-than-thou tree, isn't it? What the Hell am I doing, interfering? This is the Slayer's business. Her and the friggin' Superfriends, not mine. I just don't know.

No... truth be told, I know perfectly well. Too damn well. And I hate that more than anything.

For He is the Blood and the Life Forever and Ever, A-fucking-men.

Telling myself I don't care isn't going to change that, any more than raping the fucker, or banging His woman did. I can pretend till I'm blue in the face that the soul makes a difference, and that the only reason we're standing on the same damn side of the good/evil fence again is because I got brain-fucked by the US Government. I can tell myself I hate Him, and I can loudly and publicly announce to all His grieving friends that I hope He's dead, because the last thing this fucking planet needs is another tragic hero...

But my Blood can't lie.

Funny, isn't it? I think I said that very thing to the poufter and His mate one time. Can't remember what I said, exactly, but I'm fairly sure it was a damn good speech. The Slayer glared at me, thinking I was talking about her pathetic star-crossed lurrrrve story, or about me and Dru... But Him... He knew. He knew exactly what I was talking about. I saw it in His eyes when they flicked up at me from where He was doubled over in pain.

Angel remembers. Maybe He clings to all that Catholic bullshit that was drilled into His soul by His rotten fucker of a human father... Maybe He lets all those stupid notions of sin and damnation keep Him out of my bed. But He knows... Even now that His whole eternal bloody purpose is busting His ass to help the very creatures that used to be nothing more than cattle to Him, He knows...

We're Blood. He'll always be my Master, soul or no, and I'll always be his Most Favoured Childe, and all the cursing and pretending and fucking Slayers in the universe won't change that single, simple fact. He and I are one and the same, under it all. In the only way that counts when you're a vampire.

So that's why I'm trudging through endless miles of shit, kicking rats out of my path, cursing him and his bitch Sire, and the fucking Slayer, and my Drusilla, and the Dead Lawyers all, as I go.

He's what's at the core of me, and I'll be damned if I'm leaving his pathetic unlife in the hands of a bunch of stupid humans.

You better believe Blood is thicker than water. It's a damn sight thicker than sewage, too.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Everything I know about being a predator, I learned from the baddest predator of them all. His specialties tended toward finer things -- the psychology of his prey, the myriad of ways to draw out the game of agony for hours... days... Hell, it took him a good year to kill Dru. He said being a hunter was an art form, and as the reigning hunters on the planet, it was a vampire's honor and responsibility to raise that art into something fit for the walls of the Louvre.

Bullocks, I used to tell him. The hunt was about a quick, easy chase and the gushing hot, terror-spiced blood, pure and simple. Bugger that art shit.

Angelus sometimes laughed and said when I was older and been around a bit, I'd better understand. Other times, he'd string me up and prove to me just how subtle and drawn out the kill could be. He'd take hours... days... to bleed me, just a pinprick, a paper cut at a time. He'd make me scream and cry and bleed until I admitted that we were finer creatures than the lower animals -- the wolves, the birds of prey, the big cats. When I'd break and tell him He was right, He'd take me down and lay me in His soft featherbed, licking my wounds, feeding me from His own veins, then screw me with such agonizing care, I'd pass right out from the pain and tenderness of it all.

Point is... whether He insisted we were artistes of Death or not, He taught me all those other, baser points that every good hunter needs to know. How to find the weak, sick or stupid in any crowd. How to avoid the diseased. How to track by sight, sound, and smell, any creature, anywhere, anytime.

Including, apparently, direly wounded Sires in the deepest underbelly of the City of Angels.

I'd lost track of how long I'd been walking, thinking and remembering and just generally hating everyone and everything. I was soggy and hungry and miserable, tired and scared, and truth be told, more than a little hungover, when I first caught the scent.

Nothing in the world smells quite as sweet as pain. Unless it's a vampire's pain. Immortals in agony give off a stench worse than any sewer or dump you could possibly imagine. It's like sulfur, decay, low-tide, holy water-blistered skin and a thousand pounds of pig shit all dumped together, set on fire, and sprinkled with a generous helping of fried liver, just for good measure.

Now, the reason it smells so bad is that it's eternal. If a vampire is in enough pain to stink like this, and yet not be a big pile of dust (because the dust doesn't smell like anything but... well, dust), then this demon's in a world of hurt. Means it's been zapped with magick, or cursed, or poisoned, somehow, and it can't feed or heal. And unlike the mouthwatering aroma of finite human suffering--because, let's face it, sooner or later, the human's gonna die--the stink of vampire agony is enough to make even the most twisted, sadistic fucker fall to his knees and vomit.

So when I turn that last corner of God knows what part of the underground, and that putrid fetor hits me like I just ran into a brick wall, that's exactly what I do. It's not just the vampire rot that knocks me over and brings up all that whiskey and beer again, either. It's worse than that. It's the malodor of illness, hopelessness, tears and blood and cum and shit... and Sire. My Sire. Not dead, but might as well be, and not far off, from the pure power of that stench.

I'm up off my knees and running before I even wipe the puke off my mouth, dodging refuse and slipping around corners, sprinting full out like I'm on fire, sobbing. My whole life as a vampire rolls like some fucking teen angst TV drama before my eyes, and voices... His voice, my voice, Buffy's, Dru's... all screaming and crying and laughing and sobbing, and above it all, Him whispering:

"My Will... my boy... how I do adore ye..."

I'm crying so hard I can't see, and the only thing that convinces me I won't just find his precious bloody coat and a big heap of ancient ash is that that disgusting reek. Not such a good hunter, me, because I'm running too fast and slipping and screaming his name right out loud, and I'm not paying attention to anything but that SMELL. I trip over something and fly right through the air -- BANG into the wall, then flat on my face.

I don't pass out, but the birdies are tweeting pretty damn hard around my already aching head. When I manage to wipe away the scum and the shit, and... oh... my... holy mother of Christ... the blood... blood everywhere... if my heart could stop, it would.

I'm lying on the sewer floor in three inches of mire, and I'm looking at what I tripped over. A huge pile of dead thing like something from a Lovecraft novel. For a second, I think maybe I was wrong, and I've stumbled on the last resting place of some giant bum who's been dead a good, long time, because this... this is... fucking nightmare horrifying, is what it is. Nothing but ripped flesh that's not healing, matted hair, shreds of clothes, shards of glass and bits of garbage and so filthy with half dried blood and shit, it's brown all over...

"OH GOD!" The wail rips out of my chest, "SIRE!"

I crawl those last inches between us and haul the thing up into my lap, and Jesus H. He smells so bad. I scream and puke and clutch what's left of my lover, my father, to my chest, and just sob for I don't know how long.

I wipe some of the blood and shit out of his beautiful face... there's vomit and spit and cum crusted all around his full lips, blood around his eyes, gashes over his broad cheekbones...

I kiss him anyway, full and long. He doesn't respond, his eyes are wide open, staring at nothing, but I kiss him anyway just to be sure he's real. Because no matter how bad he looks or smells, if he's solid in my arms, under my lips, that means I can still save him.

I'm suddenly just nuts with the horror of it. "Angelus... Master... please, talk to me. Don't leave me again... come back... please..."

Looking at him like this hurts like nothing's ever hurt before... skin and bones and blood and nothing else. No arrogant smirk, no loony swagger, not even a defeated, remorseful scowl.

I yank off my coat and wrap it around him... can't stand the indignity of him lying there like that, his clothes destroyed to the point that he's mostly naked. He's so proud, my Sire. He would rather be dead than anybody see him like this. I'm so gone in it, I'm scooping the shitty water off the floor and trying to clean him with it while I beg him to wake up... wake up...

It takes a while, but I do manage to get the worst of it off him. Oh, God, he stinks like sex and gore, heroin and booze and rats, and the whole damn time I'm washing him, like he's the child and I'm the parent, I bawl.

It's almost worse when he's cleaner. There's tracks on his arms and inside one smooth thigh, and long, deep, half-closed gouges all over him like some bastard took a piece of broken glass to his skin. He's covered with bruises and bite marks like rats took a taste of him and then left him there, because not even vermin will eat vampire flesh.

I pick the glass out of his skin and hold him in my arms, then slice open my wrist and hold it over his slack mouth. I rub his throat like I'm giving a dog a pill, trying to force him to swallow the blood -- our blood-- but most of it just dribbles down his jaw.

"You have to live, damn you!" I shout at him, "You have to wake up! Sire... I love you... please!"

I can't look at him anymore. I can't stand what this is doing to me. I can't think about all the nasty things I've done and said to him in the past few years. I clutch him to me... my formidable, indestructible Master... he's so thin, and weak, and I bury my face in his filthy neck and just... cry.

I used to make fun of him for his habit of breathing. Angelus liked breathing, he said. It reminded him of what we were vs. what they were, and how, if he wanted to, he could always just stop. It reminded him that he was immortal... better than them, always. Plus, it was really good camouflage when hunting in a crowd.

I used to laugh and tell him it was just another one of his bullshit, waste of time human trappings that he collected like they collected stamps or antiques or notches in their bedposts.

Angelus would cuff me upside the head and tell me to mind my tongue or he'd rip out my lungs and see how much I appreciated breathing then.

Now, holding his bloody, lifeless carcass in my arms, I swear to everything unholy that I'd rip out my own lungs, if only he'd take just one stupid, unneeded breath.

I finally get it together enough to realize that we're sitting in a damn sewer, and if I'm going to really help him, I have to get him home, and cleaned and fed, and put to bed. The Slayer and the others are probably having a breakdown... or rather, a worse one, by now.

I sit up and wipe my face with my free hand, and take one last look down at him. His eyes are still staring, still dead, still not there, but now they're fixed on me. Seeing it gives me this feeling much like the one I got when Captain Dullboy ran me through with that plastic stake... only worse, because this pain I can feel through every inch of my being... bones and muscles and blood and dead heart.

I can't stand it! I slide my hand over his eyes like he's a dead human, and the lids slide shut beneath my fingers. I scoop him up like a giant baby (god, he weighs nothing...) and set to hauling ass back the way I came.

Being the protege of the finest hunter in history teaches you a good sense of direction. I know exactly which way to go to get to the hotel where we're all supposed to have met up at dawn, and by the faint light through the grates along the way, I figure I'm a least an hour or two late. But I figure that when they see what kept me, I'll more than likely be excused.

Blood dribbles out of the corner of my Sire's mouth. I hold him closer, and kiss it away.

"You'll be all right, ya bloody fairy," I whisper to him, "You always are."

God, I hope I'm right. Just this once.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The scary, scary place that is currently Angel's head.

(no one, not even the rain, has such small hands.)

Wee hands... so little. It doesn't seem right that she is a human being, she's so like a doll. So delicate.

I remember clear the night she was born. I was fifteen summers, then. Not boy enough to sit by the hearth, clutching my nurse's skirts, listening to my mother's delivering wails from the room above, and not yet man enough to be down at the pub with my father, drinking to the arrival of what would hopefully be another (and better) son.

Sitting outside, instead, like the dogs at my feet, I watched the moon crawl across the ink sky, full and pregnant like my mother would no longer be, after this night, and thought for certain that it would be a girl. The Moon, Our Lady, was too broad and bright to bring a boy.

I had no feelings at all for gaining a sister. A brother, perhaps, might divert my father's attention -- give him the strong, dutiful son he so often complained that I wasn't. But a girlchild? No... that would surely only make matters worse, for then, his disappointment would be multiplied times two -- not only an idiot, weakling, lazy, smart-mouthed troublemaker for a son, but now a useless, sniveling daughter to support, as well. Certainly I'd take the brunt of his anger for that injustice, as I had so many others.

So that night, I didn't much ponder on what it would mean, should my mother bring forth a sister for me. Not, that is, until I first lay eyes on her.

Even at such a tender age, I'd had my share of females... felt their soft beauty wrapped around me, heard their words of love and longing. But it was not until that clear autumn night that I truly fell in love for the first time.

A little angel, she was, quiet as a mouse, smiling up at me from her cradle. They say that newborns canna see when they first come, but I knew in an instant that was rubbish, because wee Mary Catherine was looking straight up at me, into my eyes, and reaching with those tiny hands. She loved me, too, from her first breath, I think.

So I look at her now, a decade and two years later, and still all I see is the babe who has been the only owner of my heart since that very night. Now those hands are occupied with learning women's work -- a small weaving loom in her lap -- even as we rest up in the grassy hills above my father's farm. She'll be of marrying age in a few short years, and I can already see the ghost of the beautiful woman she will become, in her soft face. She's gentle and kind, thoughtful and smart, hardworking and faithful -- all things that I'll never be, and my heart nearly breaks with the love of her.

I look away, out over the hills to the Bay, and wonder what lies beyond -- the great cities of Europe, the ancient, mysterious Orient, wildest Africa, the Colonies... Will my beloved and I always be trapped here this way, in this small land?

And yet... there is a peace to this, lying here in the grass beside the only person in the universe who doesn't believe me a wastrel. I feel a weariness in me -- don't know from where it comes, as my activities of late have been no more or less boisterous than usual-- but suddenly I am glad to be exactly where I am. I have a feeling like this... this is home, and home is good, even if it's not always pleasant. I find myself thinking, 'Yes. Perhaps Father is right, in a way. Perhaps it is time for a change. Work. A family. Time, maybe, to become a man.'

Foreign thoughts, like warm water in my veins.

But not today. Today, I'll just lie here and look up at the rare, cloudless blue sky, and simply breathe the brine air and the scent of lavender and innocence from Cathy's dress.

Why do I feel as though I've been gone... so long, too long, from here, when I have never been farther than Dublin for a single day? I feel as though I've returned from some sorrowfully endless journey, and how I've missed... this. Her.

Cathy sighs and sets down her weaving, looking down over the valley spread below us. It pains me to see her little frown, and those tiny hands now clasped together in worry.

"Liam?" she says in that soft way she has that makes me want to weep. No one else, in all my days, has ever said my name that way. As if the word has weight... worth.

"Yes, love?"

She turns her eyes to me... eyes deep brown like fine chocolate, eyes like mine, but filled with... what is it, I see haunting, there? Sorrow? Confusion? Pity? What right does a girl of barely twelve have to have such woefully ancient eyes?

"Do ye think that ye'll go t' Hell when ye die?"

The question shocks me, as though she's dropped a stone on my head. My lazy ease is gone in an instant, and I sit up to frown at her.

"What makes ye ask such a question, Mary Catherine? Ye sound like Father."

My words are harsher than I meant, and I find I'm angrier than I ought to be. Again, I'm at a loss to explain why her words should effect me so.

Cathy casts her sweet eyes down. "Aye. 'Tis something he would say. Father Brian, too. I hear them talking, and they say your soul is tainted... poisoned by your sins. That ye'r unshriven, unrepentant, and all the good deeds in the world'll not save ye from burnin'." She looks up at me again, and my heart near collapses to see her eyes overflowing with tears. "It's nae true, is it, Liam? Ye can be forgivin', can't ye? Canna God excuse any transgression?"

My brow tightens with the pondering of it. I try always to answer my sister's most childish questions honestly, whether I have the answer or no.

My Soul. Is my Soul so black as my Father and the goodly priest say? Too much drink, too many women, too little work and respect for others. Yes, perhaps I've broken most of the commandments, committed most of the cardinal sins (all of them. every one. unforgivable. unsavable. you've burned before and you'll burn again.), but really, what does it mean? Why should God care? Most of the time I think He's a figment of twisted men's imaginations, a tool to keep the unruly masses in line, and what's a fair amount of sinning (ripping your father's throat out, mocking him all the while) in a universe with no God?

But my Cathy is devout, for whatever reason, and though I think it all nonsense, I'll not crush her precious faith.

"A course he can, lass. He's a merciful Lord." (*Please, sir! Have mercy! My children!*) I blink at the strange echoes of sound in my head, but they don't come again, so I plunge on. "Isna that why we go tae church every week, then? If God wasna forgivin', we wouldna bother, now, would we?"

Her quizzical look turns hard. "Ye never go tae church anymore, Liam. Not for as long as I ken..."

I freeze at the accusation in her voice. Suddenly, I'm not only tense... I'm frightened. Is she right?

"I... My soul is my business! Tha's between me and Them!"

Cathy cocks her head to one side. "Them? There's only One, Angelus. One True and Vengeful God."

Angelus... The name is strange. Ugly. And yet... utterly familiar. To hear her speak it so fills me with dread.

Which dread grows by leaps as bounds as she reaches those tiny hands up and captures my face between them. Her fingers are cold, and the sky turns black, the air filled suddenly with weeping and screaming and cries of pain and for mercy... SHOW MERCY!

"My beautiful Liam. My poor, damned Angel. I was the first, but not the last of the hearts ye broke. Ye dinnae belong here in the Summerland. Ye'r not forgiven. Not ever."

I don't understand. This is my home! And in a heartbeat, her skin turns ashen grey, her eyes milky and dead, her limbs hard and stiff, her fingers... tiny doll fingers... smooth and frigid like spikes of frozen glass against my cheeks.

The weeping grows louder. Two voices, one male, one female, rising clear and loud as thunder among all the rest. The hills are on fire. The sky rains fire. And all around is the screaming.

I try to pull away from her, but she holds me fast. How can she be so strong? The terror and panic force tears to my eyes, and I'm so thirsty... so cold, even in the fire...

"Cathy? I don't..."

"Do ya hear them, Liam? The Golden Ones, how they cry? I am the first, but they are the worst, because I am dead, and they must live with your poison and your Hell inside them," her voice is jagged, like broken glass, inhuman, and I can't move..."You poisoned them and left them to rot! All the others, even I and Mother and Father, are only ghosts. And you, so selfish! Damned as you have damned and drank and lied and fornicated and murdered and blasphemed!"

She's screaming, now, and she's not my sister anymore, but a rotting corpse raining hatred down on me. I scream in return and God -- now I remember! I tear at her hands, my skin ripping from my face as the fingers shatter, and I get up and run. Run! The sobbing chases me like a hunting beast, the shouting and sobbing louder... the begging... (*Please, Sire...wake up. Don't leave me again...*)

"WHO IS THAT?" I wail. The Cathy Thing is beside me once more, and we are trapped in a ring of fire that grows smaller by the moment.

"Why, Liam, don't you know your own flesh and putrid blood? His tears are the salt of you."

William. Son. Blood. I don't know, yet I remember. And God -- the pain, the Blood! I'm sorry I didn't confess my sins, Father! And I'm sorry I went to the pub that night, and I'm sorry I wasted it all and I killed her... I killed them all...

"I'M SORRY!" I scream at her, "I'M SORRY!"

"Yes... you are," she whispers.

I wake with a jolt.

Damn it... now I've gone and drunk too much again... my brain's all addled. Ruins my sleep and gives me terrible bags under my eyes. Like bloody Will, and me always telling him to watch his liquor.

He whimpers from beside me, and kicks off the blankets. Only demon I've ever met who has nightmares, the poor fool. I think perhaps something went wrong with his Turning -- he's far too human for one of my line. He weeps all the time like a girl, and pouts after my Dru like a lovesick puppy, and just generally makes a fool of himself, and subsequently, me.

Darla insists I'm too soft on the boy. That I should spend more time beating some manners into him. Tear the humanity out of him, whatever it takes.

But... isn't that part of what makes him such a delightful Childe? His infinite capacity for woe, affection and pain? My Sire still thinks me a drunken fool, even after these decades past. She thinks I chose him on a whim, for his silky, honeyed hair and his finely carved jawline... his eyes of azure and slender, marbled young frame. She thinks him a simple dalliance, of which I should certainly already be bored.

There is his form, of course. William is exceedingly, exquisitely beautiful. My first and finest work of art. But he is, despite his inner softness, still a creature of amazing cruelty, ferocity, and wit. Still a lover of brawls and pubs, flesh and pain, so much like myself as a human. He is insolent and disagreeable, and best of all, mindlessly devoted and worshipful to me.

What more could a Master ask in a Most Favoured Childe?

No... I don't think I'll be staking my boy anytime soon, whatever my lovely, intolerant Sire might think about the matter.

I chose him on purpose, you see. His beauty, in combination with his willfulness and affectability, make him an endless source of delicious amusement, to me. Whether he be fettered to the ceiling, screaming and bleeding from every orifice, or nuzzled tenderly into my throat, purring and whimpering of his desperate love, he is mine. All mine, and only mine, eternally.

I watch his restless sleeping, now... the way his night terrors pull his lithe body taut as though he means to flee his own mind, thrashing and writhing in the linens... The blood of this night's hunt rushes, fast and furious, to my loins.

Of all the things I crave -- the venery, the blood, the soft, hot flesh of the living, the whimpering cries of the dying -- of all these things, it is him that I want most, always.

A thing of beauty is a joy forever, they say. And as I trace the silken path of his spine with a fingertip--from nape of tender neck, between rolling shoulders, over curve and cut of adamantine midsection, down through the valley betwixt round, firm buttocks, over the puckering rose of his anus, the satin of his perineum, the velvet of his sac, and he moans even as he has yet to waken--I know the old adage is true. This boy's beauty is awe-inspiring, and that is why I've made it eternal.

Lashes, soft and thick like butterfly wings, flutter open, revealing eyes of stormy sky... His nightmare is forgotten as he gazes up at me, unmoving but for his generous cock twitching against my seeking fingertips. His lips slacken, and my Title slips forth from him like a whispered prayer, carried on needless breath:

"Sire..."

Yes. My own manhood jerks in response to the reverent gasp. This beauty, this supplication is mine, all mine, Forever and Forever. These moans... these sighs as I climb his body, nestle myself between his legs... mine. Caressing his rump with my hardness, his slim, pale fingers (such small hands) clutching fiercely at the bedsheets, his eyes sliding shut and he bids me come... "Yes, Sire. Yes..."

I fashioned this creature. I painted this whimpering, writhing stripling with brushstrokes of lust and pain, blood and want. Fashioned him exactly thus, with my Dark Gift of Life in Death, so that he might plaint just so for my cock sliding against his... so he might shiver exactly like that as I nip the corded tendons of his neck. Ah, yes... I know why I created him.

He aches for the illusion of tenderness and love. I have preserved this in him, and that is why the lotion stands always within arm's reach on the table beside my bed, so any time, any moment, I can make myself slick to take him.

Pain is not always the best way.

William is beautiful, his every muscle hard beneath me, his cry magnificent as his body gives way to my entrance. His hips rise of their own accord from the mattress to meet my first incisive thrust... Ambrosial, his arching spine... his inner muscles clamping down around me. Mine, this flesh... I drive into it with the ease of familiarity, of certainty that oh... yes... it was right to give him rebirth. I appreciate this thing of beauty, slow and deep... Adore this clutching, gliding, milking union... this Childe of Blood and blood and muscle and bone all around me.

He knows. He rises fully to hands and knees, flexing his fine back, throwing back his shining, golden head with a shout, impaling himself on me with a might that forces a grunt from my breast... He knows his beauty. His quintessence. He knows that I am enraptured by this... this ferocious worship of him, my prime and flawless work. I unite with it, with him, striking profoundly until I can smell his blood...

This... this finest act of felicitation... I reach beneath to stroke him in thanks. And always, he praises me. He begs. He weeps as I caress him and ram him.

"Master... please... may I... come..." A yell, a desperate cry for release.

I clutch his cock hard at the root. "No. You may not."

It is too splendid to end so soon. I hold him tighter. His shout of frustration a rebellion, a pained cry of WHY? PLEASE! He skewers himself on me in rage and ecstasy. I stroke him once more, harder, now, and blanket his beauty with my own, mouth seeking that fount that binds us together. Fangs rip into flesh, concentrated liquid of connection a gush of remembrance in my mouth, cold and sweet.

My Will. Oh... how he screams. Anyone who hears and doesn't know better might think it a sound of terror, of agony... a death cry. But the only agony is the release... the knowledge that he is mine... and knowing how I will punish him later, because he gushes his bliss into my hand without leave. I let him have it... rub it into him as he jerks and trembles in my arms.

William is finer than the finest art. He is my mate, my son, my pride, my lovely beast. I clamp hard onto his throat and hammer into him with all the power that fills my veins from this -- the taking-back of the mucilaginous gift I have given him. He whimpers, growing weaker as I drain him, his body shivering on the edge of collapse. I pull out of his ass, his jugular, slide up to the headboard, and drag his fair head down to my lap. He sucks me with a ferocious hunger... an artist in his own right... a virtuoso of mouth on cock. I fuck his beautiful face until at last I am taken by my own zenith, and slam it into the back of his throat with a howl of supreme self-congratulations.

He licks me clean and looks up with a boy's eyes -- Have I pleased you, Master? I think yes. And tonight he will escape my wrath... for tonight he is my finest possession, and there is more pride in me for him than anything. I gather his slim form into my arms and marvel once again at my wisdom in taking him as he burrows into my chest.

But why now does he weep, his tears cold against the skin above my unbeating heart? Tonight, there is no need for his lamentation.

"What ails ye, Will?" I ask softly. I realize... have I ever once asked after his thoughts before? Have I ever bothered to question the melancholy that occupies so much of his time in my presence?

He looks up at me with those turbulent eyes, and says:

"Flinging from his arms, I laughed  
To think his passion such  
He fancied that I gave a soul  
Did but our bodies touch,  
And laughed upon his breast to think  
Beast gave beast as much."

What?! I push him off of me with a sudden fury. He swings his legs over the edge of the bed with a nasty smirk, and lights a cigar from the box on the nightstand. How did those get there?

"What nonsense is this?! Put that filthy thing out!" I shout at him, and now I find my voice sounds... empty of authority... impotent. Which only serves to make me angrier. "I SAID PUT THAT OUT! YOU'LL NOT SMOKE UNDER MY ROOF, BOY!" I cuff him upside his impertinent skull. He laughs, rising calmly, standing nude beside our bed, daring to defy me by looking directly into my eyes.

"YOU DARE!" I spit at him.

Again, he laughs. "You, mate, are the sorriest excuse for a demon I've ever had the extreme misfortune to lay eyes on. Hell -- you're a pathetic example of every damn thing you've ever been! A shitty man, a fucking lousy Master, a damn waste of space as a friend and a lover and a hero! I bloody well'd rather have PENN as my Sire!"

I'm shocked beyond speech, even beyond wrath. I can't move -- at first, from the sheer outrage at his behavior, and then...

Then I am chained to the bed. But it's no longer my bed... it's his. It stinks of Dru and sex and Slayer. He's had her. She's all around him like a halo and I want to vomit from the horror of it.

He is no longer Will, but Spike. Long, honey locks shorn and bleached, his nudity covered in black... black shirt, black jeans, black duster. In one small, pale hand a bottle -- I can smell the blood -- and in the other dangles a silver chain with a large cross at the end. Buffy...

"You failed. As Master. As Sire. As Man. As Lover. As brother. As son. As friend. As Warrior, you failed, you miserable, useless son of a bitch."

I can't move. I can't. Move. Darla's eyes roll back in her head as her skin pales, and Buffy wails like her soul is collapsing, and Spike just stands there and stares at me.

"I hate you," he says, and throws the bottle at me. I can't move, and it explodes... Oceans of blood, and I'm starving and it's his blood and my blood, Buffy's blood and Darla's blood, my sister's blood and Drusilla's blood and all the blood in the cosmos. Virgin blood and infant blood... innocent blood and Womanblood and Lifeblood and Death blood and cold pig's blood in plastic bags.

I scream. It tears from my chest. I can't taste it, even as I drink it all, glutting, bloating, overflowing with it, and Spike only laughs as I explode.

"Angel..."

Far. She's so far. Why? Why did I leave her when she is the only reason I rise with the setting of each sun? Why couldn't I be strong and try... move mountains to find a way to remain beside her?

She smells so good... so sweet... vanilla and honeysuckle and pulsing life.

I open my eyes, and the purest feeling of rapture, of completion washes through me to look down at her, bare and young, perfect, trusting and vulnerable beneath me.

"Don't be scared," I reassure her, kiss her gently. Kiss away the single tear that spills from her eye. "I promise I won't hurt you. I'll never hurt you."

(born to hurt her)

"I know," she whispers. Reaches her tiny hand (not even the rain...) up to caress my face. Such tenderness... unselfish caring. "I'm not afraid." (you should be)

Oh, God, I love her. She is the most precious of gifts... the only balm my soul has known in a hundred years. The rain murmurs of peace outside the warmth of this flawless moment, her softness yielding to my hardness as I ease past that final barrier between us. Sheath myself in her freely offered blessing, her unconditional acceptance. And oh... the pain is forgotten. The horror, the fear, the rage, the hunger, the unending loneliness, all gone inside of her. That tiny flinch... that little moment of blood, and she takes me where I have never even dared to dream I could go...

Heaven. Her strong legs wrap around me, and the gates are wide open before my eyes, gleaming and pure in her sighs. Her arms a circle of forgiveness, each brush of tiny fingers, redemption.

All for her. It's all been for her. I've lived, and died, and lived again, all for her.

"Angel... I love you..."

Yes. Love. It makes the world go 'round. It's a many-splendored thing. It makes you do the wacky. It heals broken souls and hearts and minds and bodies. Even if there is no God, no Paradise in the Hereafter, there is always this. Always Her.

I love you.

The night whispers. (dreadful things) Something's coming. (something has gone) It's all gone, isn't it? Hands around her fine throat, squeezing... no hope... heartbeat racing, blood pounding. Hurt her.

Choking. "ANGEL!"

Born to hurt her. Born to hurt them all.

Tiny hands clutching, lungs gasping for precious breath, fucking harder and harder and she's crying tears of The Blood...

"You can be forgiven, can't you, Liam? What will happen to your Soul when you die?"

(*Watch your tongue, boy, or you'll get the strap!*)

(*FUCK ME, ANGELUS!*)

Worthless. Failure. Wastrel. Hurt her. Drill her raw and drink her dry. Fangs in jugular, magick pumping, drinking, sucking, fucking, binding, blinding, it's all about The Blood.

Oceans of blood. Universes of blood. Endless infinity eternity of Blood, and it's all about the Blood. The screaming and the sobbing, the laughter, the sighs, the orgasm, the feeding, the release, and Death... it's all about the Blood. There's no forgiveness, and Liam's Soul will go to Hell again, because that's where it was born, and that's where He and all his demon issue were made, and I am the Blood and the Life Forever and Ever A-fucking-men.

Hell is where I am, and where I belong, and where She is eternally denied me, always taunting me, dancing golden and naked just out of my reach, and the Childe takes the lash and begs for more and smiles and smokes and their hands are so small... Beast gave Beast as much. She sings songs about the lambs and the stars and Daddy's Home and Master, please don't leave me, and I felt your heart beat and There is Always Hope... She understands, now, so many things... it's enough.

"Angel... please don't leave us. We need you. I love you, please..."

Please.

Silence.

Si iratus fueris contra me, quem adiutorem quaeram? Qus miserebitun iniqui tatibus meis?

.//If Thy Anger has turned against me, whom shall I seek to help me? Who will have mercy on my iniquities?//

Tiny hands. There is no rain, no tiny hands, in Hell. No small, loving, soothing, warm hands. Hell never smells like home, like clean sheets and like fire crackling in the hearth, like Slayer-sweet and smoky-liquor-Childe.

Miserere, quia peccavimus tibi.

.//Have mercy, for we have sinned against Thee.//

"Angel... can you hear me?"

I hear you always, my love. Even here, where I no longer understand your words or feel your touch, even now you are with me. Super omnes speciosa, vale ovalde decora.

.//Loveliest whom in Heaven they see, fairest there where all are fair...//

Yes... the echoes of your light touch my soul even in Hell.

"He can't bloody hear you, Slayer, so save your breath."

And him? Him, too. I'm sorry, William. Laborairi in gemitu meo, lavabam per singulas noctes lectum meum; lacrimis meis stratum meum rigabam.

.//I have suffered and wept, every night I have washed my bed and drenched my blanket with tears.//

I'm so sorry.

"Can I... do anything?"

"Yeah, um... could you just... put more wood on the fire? Thanks, Cor..."

"No problem... Is he..."

"The same, Pet."

"I'll get some more water."

Echoes of home. Of family. Where is the pain gone?

"Angelus... wake up, damnit."

"I thought you said he couldn't hear us?"

Breath of my Soul. Blood of my Blood. I hear you.

"Oh, Hell, will you just shut your gob and hold his damn head up?"

"It's too hot."

"Excuse me, your bloody highness, but I think I know a bit better than you how hot it should be."

"I'm just saying."

"Well, don't."

Bickering angels. The clouds are all black, but the sky is so clear... the blood is hot, but not too hot, now... and then they are gone again.

And if I hadn't already been here for a thousand eternities, I would weep for the loss of them.

If I cried me a river of all my confessions, would I drown in my shallow regret?

Mea culpa. Mea maxima culpa.

not even the rain has such small hands.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buffy tends to Angel, and reflects on her life and the nature of their relationship.

He's so still... so silent. If he was human, I'd be sure he was dead, but as it is...

As it is, I don't know what he is... or where. I just know that his body is here. He's solid, not dust, and that one small thing, at least, is of the good.

I sit here on the edge of his bed, watching absolutely nothing happen. He's clean, now, and we fed him as much as we could... physically, I don't think there's anything else we can do.

God, he's so thin. I can see his collarbone poking right through the skin of his shoulders. It rips me up inside to see him like this, when he's usually so big and healthy and strong. He's so pale, paler even than usual, lying there... no sign of his usual habit of breath. Not even twitching movements of nightmares. Just... nothing. And me? I do what I've been doing for years, now. I cry. I hold his cold, bony hand, and I cry.

I wonder, sometimes, if there's a limit to the number of tears you can cry for one person. You know, like, "You get 4.2 million for Person X, 5.6 billion for Person Z," and when those are all used up, you just go dry and feel nothing for them anymore at all, no matter what happens.

Well, if it's true, then I must have a pretty close to infinite supply for Angel, because I've cried a hundred oceans for him, and it never feels like I'm even close to being done.

I was the only person who made it back at dawn, and that made me feel worse. The others were still out looking, really caring about him, and screw what we agreed on. I was just so tired...tired and empty and aching inside. I spent the whole night walking from one end of Los Angeles to the other, crying and remembering, and found nothing. Came back with nothing but bruised knuckles from clocking some idiot would-be mugger on Sunset Strip, and a big, gaping hollow in my chest where I'm pretty sure Angel used to be. A perfect California day was dawning, and all I wanted to do was crawl into a hole and die.

When I walked into this place, I was just... stunned. Huge and old-fashioned, and it smelled like him -- like cool skin and spice, old books and leather, and when I stood in the lobby and looked up that the mile-high ceilings, I started shaking. I could feel him, now... everywhere. In every shadow, in the air, in my blood and my bones, and I just collapsed there on the foyer steps and cried.

A hotel...a home with plenty of space for his pain and his ghosts and his utter loneliness. How fitting. How like him. God.

I don't know how long I sat there, mourning and regretting, and letting him wash through me. It was like everything we'd been through since I was Called came and sat on my chest like a ton of the biggest, ugliest monster I'd ever battled, and even those tiny good moments that we'd shared in between just vanished under the weight of it.

I love him, God, and I would do anything... give up everything... to feel him inside me again, his strength and his love and his spirit filling me up the way it used to. I've been so empty for so long...

Somehow, I thought that once I was out on the streets, out in the smoggy air he didn't need to breathe, that I would just know where to find him. We've always been connected like that, so that I could feel his presence from a mile away -- it was like we weren't really separate people at all, it was so strong. Sometimes I imagined I could feel him even when he was here, and I was in Sunnydale. It always made me feel good... safe... just to know he still existed, even if I couldn't see him or hear him or touch him. I could always feel him. It made moving on -- even just the pretense of it -- almost bearable. Almost.

He's in my blood, and I'm in his, and nothing can ever change that.

But as I wandered a dozen streets that all looked the same, peering in every alley, at every shadow, under every fire escape, doorway and sewer grate, I felt nothing. Not even that itch under my skin that had been nagging at me for weeks. Like he was suddenly just gone.

But, no. More than anything, I'm certain I would know if his soul left this dimension again. I think his Final Death would rip me wide open from the inside, and I would probably die right along with him. And maybe (God, I hope...) we'd be together wherever it is we ended up after. Maybe that's wishful thinking, on my part. Maybe it's more of that fairy tale stuff that just won't go away. I don't know, and I don't care. When you live a life that's as outside of normal as I do, you hold on to every little thing you can to give you hope.

Like Riley...

But... I can't think about that, now. It's not important. I know I owe him a lot-- an apology, at least -- but it's too late for that. It's not too late to save Angel, and that's all I can care about. His pain, my pain, even Spike's pain -- they're all the same, and it's got to stop.

I know I felt him the last time we were close, standing there outside my dorm room with all our history screaming between us, my heart full of fury, and Riley standing like Captain Braveheart inside. I never got any closer than a few feet from Angel -- it hurt too much to be even that close -- but even so, I could feel his every movement and word and unnecessary breath as if I was holding him in my arms.

It's always been like that, with us. That pull, that irresistible draw that wrenches us together no matter how hard we try to fight it. It's like he's the sun, and I'm a planet in his solar system, eternally trapped in his gravity.

While we were standing there, making small talk meant to give us some ridiculous illusion of closure, I couldn't think about anything but the depth of his eyes... how soft and delicious his lips looked, crooked in that half-grin that is so uniquely his. I'd forgotten how big and powerful his body is... the way he commands all the space and the light and shadows around him, even when he just stands there, doing nothing but talking and being so damn sweet and beautiful and sexy...

I wanted so badly to feel his strong arms wrap around me the way they used to. I wanted to snuggle into his broad chest, and hear him tell me how much he loved me, and know, just for that moment, that I was absolutely safe and cared for. I wanted him to tell me how much he missed me, and how sorry he was for leaving. I wanted to kiss him, slow and deep... get lost in his cool, wet mouth. Tangle my hands in all that thick, careless hair. I wanted to strip him and strip me and just be naked and keep him safe inside me, where he belongs...I wanted to forget about our past, and the Hellmouth and Adam, and my friends, and yes, right then, even Riley.

I wanted a lot of things. But I didn't tell him a single one. He used to want them too, and I know that's a big part of why he left. Because if we were in the same town together, there was just no way that we would be strong enough to fight that natural gravity in our cells.

I was thinking about that when the basement door exploded inward, and Spike came barreling through it, screaming my name. As soon as I saw them...

I felt him, then. I felt both of them, in fact. Pain and anguish like getting hit by a Mack truck. Spike was crying and filthy, carrying this... broken thing in his arms like a giant, wasted infant, and God... no... that can't be Angel... can't be...

"ANGEL!" His name just ripped from my chest as I ran to them, and Spike -- "I don't give a toss, because I hate you both" Spike -- was standing there, holding him, shivering and sobbing like a wounded child.

"He...he's... he..." he spluttered, and I didn't know what to do. I couldn't move. It was like a nightmare, that frozen, helpless feeling, when all I could do was stand there and stare at what was left of my heart's mate.

Then, in the next moment, time shattered, and it was like everybody appeared out of nowhere, and everything became a blur of panic and horror and time moving too fast and too slow all at once. Wesley stood there, and stared with wide, horrified eyes, saying, "Oh, my dear God," over and over again. I remember shouting orders at people... some part of me that wasn't crumpled up and wailing in pain stepped forward and gave everybody chores, tasks... something, anything to bring order to the chaos. Spike and I carried him upstairs... the others followed, and they were shouting and scrambling and crying, too. Someone built a fire in his rooms... we warmed up bags and bags of blood from his refrigerator, and forced them down his throat. We carried him into the bathroom and stripped off what was left of his clothes and tried not to fall apart to see how bloody and torn and emaciated he was. We filled the tub with scalding hot water, and Spike stripped and got in with him, still clutching him close, both of us sobbing senselessly as we washed all the blood and gore off him... We called to him, begged him, told him how much we loved him. The others came and went every few minutes, but never stayed long -- whether to give us privacy in our very private grief, or whether they couldn't handle seeing him like this either -- I don't know.

Then, when he was clean at last, we dressed the worst of his wounds and put him in his bed like a sick child, and just kept talking to him and feeding him, touching him and hoping... praying... I think even Spike was praying, although I could have been imagining it.

He has to live. He has to keep being. We need him. The world needs him. He can't give up, not now. Not when he's done so much and come so far. Please...

Now it's quiet, and there's no sound or movement but the crackling fire, and he and I in this room. The others are somewhere else... sleeping or... I don't know what. Spike finally left, cursing and saying he was bored and hungry and tired, and he was going out to get a bottle of something. He griped like he always does, but I could feel his absolute devastation at everything that had happened. He couldn't handle it, either. And I could feel his shame over his weakness. Shame that I had seen him fall apart like that over someone who's supposed to be his worst enemy. He bitched at me, and snapped at me, and then stomped out like we had done all of this with the express purpose of upsetting him.

Doesn't he know? Doesn't he know that I understand? That being naked beneath him last night opened some kind of link between us, and now we three are just one complete circuit, like that Eternity snake thing that swallows its own tail, and his pain, and my pain, and Angel's, are all the same? How could he not know?

I wanted to stop him. Tell him that I understood. That it was okay for him to feel the way he does. I wanted him to stay with us, so I could keep leaning on him... keep drawing on his strength... feel Angel through him... so both of us could bring him back together.

But... no. Spike needs his denial, I think. Just like I used to need it. In a way, he's in a far worse position than I am, because his Angel really is gone forever (God, I hope) and he can't deal with the fact that he still feels the same way about this one, who he is convinced is the symbol of everything boring and bland and bad in this world that he loves so much.

I can't even imagine how much he must hurt. So I let him play his game, and I promise to stay and take care of Angel while he does whatever he has to do (drink, probably). I don't respond when he says, "Yeah, whatever," like he doesn't care, and I pretend I don't notice that one long, last, lingering glance he gives to Angel before he turns and walks out.

I'm almost as tied to Spike, now, as I am to Angel. And, believe it or not, it's not as disturbing as it sounds. In fact... it's almost comforting.

So it's just Angel and I and the fire, and the bowl of cool water, and his bed... and this is a deja vu I never wanted to have. The last time he was dying... the last time I was wiping his brow like this, knowing that one way or the other, he would leave me.

No. He's not leaving me. Not this time. And I'm not going anywhere, either. Not until he's well and safe and strong again. Let the world go to Hell. Let Glory get Dawn... no, I don't mean that. But if I can help it, I'll sit right where I am for as long as I have to, until I know that he can stand on his own again. Until I get to tell him...

"I love you, Angel... so much..." I whisper, "I'm sorry about everything that's happened. I'm sorry about Darla and Dru... I'm sorry about Riley... I'm just... sorry...Please don't leave me."

Great speech, Summers. Where did all my words go? All the things I wanted to say... that I'd been practicing and going over and over in my mind since we left Sunnydale last night? Why can't I remember them anymore?

Words. Just words. Screw the words. They never did us any good, before. Words can't really heal... not the way he needs to be healed. Words are just words, and I think that might be why they're gone. He needs more from me than stupid words. Aren't they half of what wrecked us to begin with?

I ease down beside him on the bed. I don't know why... I just... need to be close to him. Maybe will my life force into his soul like I once forced him to drink my blood? I reach up and caress the planes of his beloved face... he's so beautiful, even like this... like his splendor really is more than skin deep... like even when he's so far away, his soul lights him from within. His beautiful, precious soul...

I touch him without fear, without reservation... just let my hands wander over his painfully thin and wounded body. Places I've only touched once... some I've never touched at all. It's not about sex... not even about love. It's just a reassurance... to me, to him... that he's still here, and his body is whole, and the rest will come, in time. He will survive. He has to.

I let my hands speak where my mouth always fails. I touch the healing wounds. I can hardly believe how desperate I am to put my hands on him... and so terrified, at the same time. Do I have the right to do this? Is this beautiful, broken body in any way mine to experience? I don't know. And here I go, being selfish again, but... I don't care. I need to feel him. I have to.

And part of me can't help but think... maybe this is what he needs. Maybe he's so far away, so defeated, so alone, because he's forgotten... made himself forget... that to be close, to let people near you, can be a source of strength. Of healing. To love isn't just about pain and loss... it's about being connected. About being part of the world. Ties that time and space and even Death can never destroy. It's about being whole.

I wonder if maybe this is a lesson I need to learn myself.

I let my hands wander softly over his mending skin... cool, smooth, pale satin, wounds pulling tight to silver scars, then vanishing before my eyes... under my fingertips.

His body is magic. A spell of flesh and blood and bone that was cast on me only once, but has never let me go for a moment since. I smooth my hands over him, spread all the warmth and love and missing and needing him over his form... He doesn't move. Doesn't breathe. Doesn't respond at all, beyond the slight tightening of his brow, but somehow... I know he knows.

I remember every inch of him. From only that one night, my hands and mouth and body took him in and kept him in the deepest, darkest core of my being, and now...this re-awakening of desire is like wildfire under my skin. That gravity, that pull, will always be, just like my love. I can close my eyes, pretend it's not there, but like the rhythm of breath and heartbeat, it will be a part of me until the day I die. I can live beyond it... behind it... around it... but never, never can I truly leave it behind.

I kiss him. Forehead... cheeks... lips and jaw, throat and shoulder, chest and belly... I kiss the fading hurts and wish that I could kiss the ones I can't see... I love every inch of him, inside and out, and the throbbing, soothing ache in my own body tells me:

I need this healing, too. And wherever he is, I need him to come back, because I have to tell him. He has to know...

I love you.

I touch him, I tell him... I heal him and heal me... and I cry until I finally fall asleep, curled up tight against his chest.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Somewhere, I am dreaming. I don't have a lot of happy dreams, anymore... not for a long time. I usually dream about the same things I deal with every day: monsters. The end of the world. Darkness and death.

Angel is no stranger to my dreams, good or bad. My favorites are ones like these... bright, sunny afternoons, birds singing, fields of green grass as far as I can see in every direction. And he's always alive, tanned and heart-beating in the sunshine... and he always wears white. He smiles a lot. We eat fruit and cheese we've brought in a picnic basket... we talk about nothing. Sometimes, like now, we don't talk at all. We don't eat, either. He just leans toward me with this heartbreaking light in his eyes...a glimmer of something... miraculous and beatific. God, his eyes... rich, and deep, like fresh earth, and I can see myself so clearly in them... and he reaches a big, gentle hand up to touch my face. His lips brush mine, and they're so warm... his tongue so wet and sweet...

Did I ever kiss anyone else? Were we ever anywhere but right here in this meadow where there's nothing but us and the way we should have been and the sunshine? I can't remember.

I never think about pain or vampires or death, when he's kissing me. I never did. I never think about being without him, either. I can't remember anything but his love...his mouth... his hands... that look on his beautiful face...

And as he lays me down in the soft grass, he sighs and closes his eyes, and we're nothing but skin and breath and touch, and it's like coming home. Like being born again. It's like... everything. No. It is everything.

I remember every tiny detail of the one night Angel and I were together. I slept with Riley a hundred times, and all of that's just a pleasurable blur I've labeled "Good Sex" somewhere in my memory. But those few precious hours with Angel... I can relive every whisper... every kiss... exactly the way his hands and mouth felt on every inch of my body. And I do, here... I remember, and I relive it in his arms... he tastes like chocolate and peanut butter. He tastes like life and love and hope... and sunshine. He tastes like dreams come true, and laughter, and he feels...

God, he feels so good. And I never want to wake from these dreams. I never want him to stop making love to me. I want that one night to go on and on forever. I never want to stop calling out his name in ecstasy, or him to stop calling mine in return... I never want his body to leave my body, or his arms to let me go, even for a moment. This is the only place in the whole world in my entire life where I've ever felt safe and whole... the only place I've ever just... been.

These dreams always come after my worst days... days when nothing makes sense, and everything around me hurts -- the whole world is just ugly and wrong. It's like the love he's given me lives somewhere deep in my heart, and when I feel like I can't go on anymore, he comes to me and makes all the pain, all the darkness go away... like my Knight... my sweet, brave Prince. He's the only thing that's ever been right... in my life... in my body, my heart, my soul. Without that love, I can't live. I can't breathe. I can't fight or laugh, and my heart doesn't beat. I can't stand to go on without these dreams of him.

When I wake from those nights, I'm so happy, for a minute. I'm okay. I'm all right. Everyone and everything is fine, and just the way it should be, because he loves me.

A moment later, my heart shatters when I reach for him and he's not beside me. I remember mornings when I rolled over and found Riley, and for a second, I hated him. The wrong arms... the wrong body...the wrong eyes, the wrong bed, the wrong "Buffy..." the wrong everything. It wasn't his fault, and I was glad he was there... but my heart didn't care.

I started thinking it was better to wake up alone, because then I didn't have to explain to Riley why I was crying.

Of course, that point's kind of moot, now.

Angel's lips... cool and soft... his hands... so gentle. When I woke, I could feel him all over my skin. Half of me rejoices that I've known something so powerful that it stays with me like that, even after all this time. But the other half... the other half is just broken, and a million years could pass, and I don't think it will ever be whole again.

When I wake from this night's sweet dream, and I feel his arms around me, for a heartbeat, I'm confused. I don't move, because I know it's him. I know that chest against my back. I know that unnecessary breath in my ear. I know those arms. And for that perfect moment, before I'm really awake, I feel tears start to well. The past two years have been the nightmare, and this... this is the only thing that's real. He's here, I'm here, and he's holding me, and yes... this is the way it was meant to be.

But then, of course, I remember. I open my eyes and see the strange, dark bedroom... the fire burning low in the fireplace. I smell all the blood we force fed him, and the antiseptic. I remember how we got here, and everything that's happened in the past few days comes rushing back.

But... I still feel okay. Because he's moved sometime while we slept. He moved enough to wrap me in his embrace and huddle close, burying his nose in my hair. He's breathing again.

Oh, God... he's alive. Thank you. Thank you.

And the tears come, but for the first time in as long as I can remember, they're tears of joy and relief, because yes, I will get to talk to him again. I will get a chance to tell him everything I never did. I will get to see him smile, and I am in his arms.

I turn over slowly, gently in that circle of love. He's still fast asleep, his pale, beautiful face still gaunt and healing, but peaceful... serene. The furrow of his brow has smoothed, and his lips are parted slightly. He looks like a little boy when he's sleeping. Like an innocent.

Like an angel...

I let those tears come, because I've held too many back... I've hidden too much of myself away for too long, and oh... I've missed this face... I was so afraid I'd never see it again.

I can't help it. I reach up and caress his cheek, and softly... so softly... kiss his lips.

He tastes like home. Like chocolate and peanut butter. Like being born again. Like hope. Like second chances. I have to choke back a sob. I don't want to wake him, he's still so weak, and he needs to rest, but... God...

Suddenly, I'm not so sure that I really am awake, because his eyes flicker open, and focus on me... and his mouth... those lips... almost smile.

I can't help but smile back, even through my tears.

Neither of us move for... I don't know how long. Forever, maybe. Forever and always we just lie there, side by side and face to face, his arms around me... so close I can feel the warmth of my breath on his skin.

Now I know why I lost all the words. His eyes say a million things, and I hear every one as clearly as though he has spoken. *I love you. I miss you. I'm so glad you're here. Buffy... I hurt.*

I do sob, then. *I know,* I tell him, *It's okay, now. I'm here. We're here to help you. You're not alone. I love you.*

We don't need speech, to hear one another. We never did.

This time, he kisses me... motion so slow, I'm sure it hurts him, and I know he doesn't care, because it's so gentle, and now we're both crying... great, gulping sobs echoing in the air, and I lose track of whose are whose. This pain is both of ours. The confusion, the weakness, all the hurt and loss of hope...

We just hold each other and cry into one another's lips. It'll be all right now. It hurts. It's hard. But we'll be okay. I know we will.

I love you, Angel. I'm so glad you came back.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spike thinks about liquor, love, blood, sex, and the origins of a really shitty attitude.

There are a very few things on this planet that a bloke can count on. In fact, I can count them on one hand. One: fucking feels good, no matter how much you dislike your partner. Two: there's no taste in the world compares to hot blood in your mouth. Three: liquor gets you drunk. And drunk is good. Four: If you're a vampire, and you avoid wood, sunlight, decapitation, nasty curses and Slayers, you'll be wandering the world forever. And five: You can't get over Sire issues, even after a hundred bloody years.

A hundred years. A fucking century, and I've still got that rotten bastard right down in my undead bones. After all the bullocks He's put me through since I've known Him, I still worship the piece of shit, and right now, I can't get drunk enough to wash the hollow, bitter taste of grief out of my mouth.

It's that damned Slayer. It's always about that self-righteous, beautiful bitch. Everything that's gone wrong in my miserable unlife boils right back down to Her. ('Cept maybe for my Sire's regaining His soul in the first place. That was those idiot Gypsies.) She's the one who ruined my reputation as a Slayer-Slaying badass. She's the one who brought a doubly batty Angelus back and lost me Dru. She's the one who got this chip in my Head. She's the one that turned me into some goddamn soldier for good, and now, ain't it fitting that fucking Her has turned me into a bloody poster child for the Oedipus Complex.

Christ! Look at me! Sitting here in the kitchen of some poofy hotel, drinking everything I can find in my half-dead Sire's sorry excuse for a liquor cabinet, sobbing like a fucking kid lost His mommy in the mall, for Chrissake. I'm damned upset, and really fucking pissed off about it, and I can't believe I cried in front of the Vampire Slayer, of all the bloody bints!

Now I'm really my Sire's Childe. All weepy and introspective, drunk off my ass, and still can't stop thinking about that sanctimonious sad excuse for a demon bastard rotting away in His own skin upstairs.

I wasn't a very happy human being, either. I had a damned shitty life, and the truth is, I spent most of my time trying to die. Drinking too much, fighting too much, going home with strangers, cheating at cards... guess you could safely say I had a death wish. Who says wishes never come true?

One man -- or rather, one monster -- turned all that around. Changed my life by taking it. I owe Him as much bloody thanks as I do hatred, as much as it gives me a chip-style headache to admit it.

Now... let me preface this little story by saying that I was as straight as a bloody arrow when I was alive. Chuff was the only name of the game when it came to sex, for old William. Loved women, I did. A lot of them, in fact. And with the exception of a handful of blowjobs in Whitechapel's alleyways for loose change when I was particularly down on my luck, it was never once that I took any fancy to, or pleasure from, a man.

But everything was different about that first rainy night I met the famed Irish gentleman, Angelus. Why not my sexual preference, too? I'd been lucky at the races that day -- had a pocketful of silver, and a belly loaded with the finest booze and food The Wandering Spirit Tavern had to offer. I was sittin' at the back table, watching the dancin' girls, feeling all bloody fine about myself, and here comes this-- Oh, Hell, this walkin' Greek God, truth be told--marchin' over in His fine silks like He owned the damn place.

I'll be buggered if I can remember a word He said. All I remember is those eyes looking right through me, and me shakin' down to my brand new boots with lust for Him. And when He smiled... oh, Holy Jesus on a Rubber Crutch... I woulda just let Him kill me, right then and there. Preferably after a good fuck, of course.

Now that I think about it, it could very well be that Angelus hypnotized me, the underhanded prick. Not that it matters, because I fell in love with Him in less than the time it took for Him to ask me, in that voice like velvet and honey, back to His home for a cigar and a glass of port.

Now, I knew full well that if I went to this fine gentleman's house, there wasn't going to be a whole lot of port-drinking and cigar-smoking going on. And woman-lover, full pockets and belly or no, I didn't care. I had this uncontrollable urge to run my hand through all that thick, shining hair, over those obscenely broad shoulders... see if there was as much muscle and cock under that suit as I was imagining as we rode through London in His fancy carriage.

Done, is what I was. A goner from the moment He said, "Good eve to ya, young William." Never bothered to ask how He knew who I was -- found out later that He'd been following me about for weeks. Never even noticed Him everywhere I went, drooling over me and planning my grisly seduction and death.

His house was like nothing I'd seen before or since. Room after room full of junk that screamed, "I'm a fucking filthy rich bastard, and don't you forget it!" But... this street urchin was impressed. And surprised when we actually did sit down in front of the fire with a drink and a smoke, while He told me that He was looking for an apprentice, or some such bullocks.

Was I interested, He asked me. Hell, He could've told me He was looking for a human toilet and I would have been interested. He sat there and promised me everything in the goddamn universe -- a home, money, women, all the fine clothes and booze and food I could handle, more power and influence and adventure than I could shake a firepoker at. And He was just so unbelievably fucking beautiful, all smooth and suave and cultured, sipping at His port there in the firelight, and I couldn't say, "Hell yeah, I'm interested!" fast enough. To which He just smiled that fucking smile, and said there was a bit of a catch.

A bit of a catch. Damn if I can remember just how the Hell He made dying and coming back as a bloodthirsty demon so sod-all attractive, but He must have, because the next thing I knew, He was kissing me... I'll tell you, I'd never kissed a man before, or another since, but SHIT. It was the finest kiss I've ever had. His mouth was cool and firm, insistent, demanding, dominating, loving and tender all at once, and He tasted like wine and cigars and blood, and He was... fucking magnificent.

"Eternal life, William. Free from care. Free from pain," He whispered as He stripped me bare, "Ye'll live with me, and be mine... have everything you've ever dreamed of... forever."

FUCK ME! Which He did. He laid me right down on that monstrosity of a featherbed, and sucked my cock until I was squealing like a little pig, begging Him to let me come. Which He didn't, naturally. One of Angelus' favorite methods of torture, where I was concerned. Probably some transference thing from the way His Sire did Him all the time. But, anyway...

Instead, He stood and took off all that silk and linen, and when He was naked, standing over me... I fucking knew He'd be beautiful, and I was right. I never wanted anything before the way I wanted to touch Him right then.

Angelus slid down beside me, and I couldn't get my hands on enough of that body fast enough for my liking. He licked me, nibbled me, felt me and stroked me with those huge hands... He was everywhere on me, and while that was going on, I forgot all about who I was an hour ago. I didn't care anymore. He was so good, all I cared about was never being away from Him ever again. I didn't give a shit how it happened. Gotta turn me into a pile of dog crap? No problem. Just don't. Stop. Touching. Me.

I have absolutely crystal fucking clear memories of my Turning. I remember His enormous body spooning me from behind... His thick cock easing into that place where no one had ever gone before... one of those hands... Jesus Christ, those hands... stroking my dick just right, and my body was exploding, on fire from that absolutely pure sensation of it, and then... His fangs in my throat... those sweet, sweet sucking sounds as He drained my pathetic life away. He fucked me and jerked me off and I came like you wouldn't fucking believe as I died in His arms.

But the best part of all... that moment that brought me right here to this sorry moment... His huge wrist gashed open... Him holding the bleeding appendage to my mouth. He kept fucking me... harder, even... deeper... His cock impaled so deep in me that it probably would've killed me if His exquisite feast didn't first, and the last thing I remember before everything went black was the ungodly sweet taste of His Blood in my mouth. Pouring. Gushing. Pumping down my throat. And the way He grunted, driving into me as He came, and Jesus Christ, the Blood...

Son of a bitch, it was good. If I could recommend a way to die, I'd put being fucked and sucked dry by the hottest, meanest demon on the face of the planet right up there at the top of the damn list.

Not that I've experienced any of the others, mind you.

So now, here I am. It's a hundred goddamn years later, He's got a soul, we've both fucked the same Slayer, and I'm weeping like a bloody pansy in His kitchen.

Jesus fucking Christ, I still love Him, as much tonight as a hundred and some odd bloody years ago, and as it turns out, I love His fucking stupid bitch mate, too. If vampires had a Bible, this would be one of the goddamn seven bloody signs of the Apocalypse, I'm sure of it. I'm drunk out of my gourd, crying, nursing a hard-on that just won't quit, and I can smell the bastard. Her too. Smell them both like they're standing right next to me. Him like sadness and memories, and Her like love and fucking la-di-da sunlight, and I'm so goddamn horny I could fuck this steel table.

Yup. Pain, misery and sex. Just like my bloody degenerate Sire taught me. And now I'm all full of goodness and tenderness and caring-goddamn-bloody-white-fucking-light, wanting to take Him in my arms and feel Him, just to reassure myself that He's still here...

Thinking about losing Him makes me cry harder than anything. Did I cry this much when He disappeared in Romania? Or when I found out about His soul? Or when Dru left me? I don't think so. I think something's really, really gone wrong with me, this time. Something that maybe can't be fixed even if I ever get this chip out of my head.

A little hand on my shoulder. Oh, good. No, Slayer, don't leave me with even one tiny little shred of dignity or anything. Just come right in here and wrap your warm little arms around me and hold me like I'm your kid and I've skinned my knee, and oh... yeah... that's good, too. Kiss the top of my head and tell me you love me, and He's going to be okay, and then thank me for staying and for being your friend. Yeah. That's wonderful for my self-image. You go right to it.

Me... fightin' real hard, too. I burrow into Her soft breasts and cry. Tangle my hands in Her hair and sob His name. And She's kissing me, now...

Oh, fuck. She tastes like Him. She's been kissing Him. Like in the last few hours. I taste the salt of Her tears and His... This pain that rocks through me, it's in Her mouth... from His mouth... and I plunge my tongue into it... She whimpers and presses that body against me and sod all if I'm not just a wreck of a fucking demon.

So I push Her right up onto that table, and I kiss Her like I haven't kissed a human being... well... ever, honestly... I take in the taste of Her, and this knowledge that I never wanted that She's my blood, too. Can you believe it? A Slayer... not my enemy, but my lover, my sister, my mother... She's every woman in the universe, and She's part of my flesh and my Sire's flesh, and I just want to bury myself inside Her and never come out again. I kiss Her slow... deep, and I take it all in... my hands follow the lines of Her and fuck, I love Her... I love Him. We saved Him. We brought Him back, together, Her and me... I touch Her breasts, and She sighs... I slide Her nightshirt up, and my hand beneath and touch Her heat... plunge my fingers in, and I feel His pain for thinking about how this feels and never being able to do it... but why can't He do it? Fingering Her isn't Perfect Happiness... but, oh, shit... that whimpering noise She makes is. Yeah. I get it. I understand the Curse, because She tastes better than liquor and blood, and the only thing She doesn't taste better than is my Sire... His skin, His blood, His jiz.

For Him... for Him... it's all for Him. I'm making love to His mate because He can't... I make Her come... I make Her come again, and She sobs and bites back a shout as She does, and when She's still trembling from it, I thrust my cock inside Her... His place... like His fucking surrogate... literally, and I don't care, because She's part of me, and I love Her. I love Her. I love the goddamn Slayer.

Fucking Her transports me right back to that night when He killed me, and yeah, this is fucking good. It's fucking bliss, and Her body feels fantastic, throbbing around me... but She's not Him. She'll never be Him. She'll never be able to stick it to my ass like the world's coming to an end... She'll never be able to put Her teeth in me and give me new life. The only thing She comes close to Him in is making me all scrambled in the head, and kicking my ass from here to Tuesday.

But I bury my face in Her neck and breathe Her in and come like a shot anyway, pumping Her full of all of it. Of Him, of me... of who we were and where we've been and where the fuck we're going next, and damnit if I don't just start crying again. My Sire wants this more than anything, and I have it, and shouldn't that make me happy?

It doesn't. Buffy holds my close to Her, and we're both just quiet and still there, in the dark. I kiss Her ear... Her throat... Her shoulder. I kiss Her and hold Her, and I can hear Her heartbeat. She's mind numbing. My poor Sire.

"It's not the same, is it?" She says, so soft that, if I wasn't a vampire, I never would have heard it at all.

I pull away and look down into Her face, caress Her cheek, look into those eyes that I know Angel dreams about every damn night, and I say, "No. But... nothing is."

She gives me a sad little smile. "I know, believe me."

I get up and help Her down off the table, pull Her tee shirt back over Her soaking crotch, and brush my hands over Her. She really is beautiful. A symbol of life and light and spirit, and I gotta say... my Sire's got damn fine taste in women. If not the wisest, maybe.

She takes my hand, and leads me upstairs to His room. He's asleep... but He looks so much better, it almost sets me to blubbering again. No, goddamn it. Be a man. Pull your sorry ass together.

We stand there and just look down at Him, holding hands...

This is a moment I never imagined in my worst nightmares. Worse than that? I'm glad of it. I'm standing here with my family, and whether my soul's electronic or not, I have a very human feeling of warmth and security to have them both there.

Buffy looks up at me with something in Her eyes... I couldn't even begin to put words to it. But She smiles, and She kisses me, She squeezes my hand...

And She leaves. Turns around and walks out of the room, leaving me alone with my Sire and a hundred something years of History. For a long time, I just stand there, staring at Him. He's healing... His flesh is filling out... He's breathing again. I stand there and stare at that beautiful naked body, and think:

How did I ever believe I hated Him? I mean... besides the fact that He used to abuse me fit for a Hard Copy Special Report, or that He used to abuse my Dru, or that He's tried to kill me more times than I can count, or that He hates me. He regrets me. That one perfect, exquisite night in all my existence, and I bet He wishes every day that it never happened.

Okay, so... maybe I do hate Him, just a little. Actually, a lot of me fucking hates Him so much I want to puke. Then kill him myself. Then puke some more.

I sigh and sit in the chair beside the bed, facing Him. Isn't this just a scene out of Masterpiece Theater meets Skinemax? Me, sittin' here with no shirt on, stinking like Slayer musk, and my lover naked, unconscious on the bed, and the room with that same damn decor as His alter ego's always had... the fire, the rich antique furniture. Everything dark and dramatic, just like Him.

I wish I didn't have so many damn feelings about all of this. I can blame it on the chip or the Slayer, but I know that's not it. Blood boiling, that's what it is. Angelus set my blood on to simmer a hundred years ago, and He left the pot on the stove when He disappeared--not even turning it down, first, the bastard--and now, at last, I guess it's boiling over.

I look down at Him, all peaceful and quiet, almost healthy-looking again. He was beautiful then, He's beautiful now, and whatever the reason, I'm so fucking glad that He's here, I could jump up on the bed and do a jig like some drunken mick.

It wasn't all about pain and domination, Angelus and me. That's The easiest stuff to remember, of course, because pain is what sticks with you. But we were lovers, too... He loved me as much as a fucked up, sadist Hellbeast probably can love, and sometimes... Yeah, I can remember tenderness. I remember Him being gentle when that mob in Barcelona creamed me. I remember Him making love to me, and telling me how beautiful I was, and how glad He was He made me. I can remember Him fighting tooth and nail with Darla over who owned my ass. So... maybe this isn't such a bloody bizarre thing, to love Him as much as I do. To want Him to go on existing, just because He's my Sire.

He made me. I loved being a vampire for a good, long time, and this man... this body, and the demon somewhere inside of it... those teeth and those hands created me, molded me out of street filth and desperation and His blood and not much else.

So, yeah, I love Him. So fucking what. That makes me a queer, that makes me a fuckin' poufter just like Him, so be it.

"Yeah, so... I fuckin' love you, ya bloody ponzy. So what?" I growl at Him.

I don't know who I'm challenging anymore. I was a goddamn Master in my own right, you know. I was way beyond the fledgling stage when He reappeared in my life. But... it's true what they say, no matter how many you Sire... no matter how big your territory gets or how much power you have... you could be a thousand fucking years old, and if your Sire walks into a room, you get down on your knees and put your eyes to the floor, because that's the way it's done. The One That Made You is always due respect, even if you're planning on dusting Him the next second.

I've never been much good at it, but still. If I was one of those vamps who bothered with tradition, I'd care about all the rules I've broken when it came to Him. But I guess He raised me like that, too. He raised me to be contrary and defiant. If He didn't love it, He would've just staked me like His Sire was always saying He should, and been done with it. He didn't. Yeah, He bitched and snarled and beat the ever lovin' shit out of me... but I'm sitting Here right now, and that means that some part of Him was indulgent.

I guess even demons have a special place in their... whatever... for their First Made.

I don't understand the mechanics of it... I don't know what it is about the demon Blood that pulls us together. All I know is that it's like gravity... a connection so strong, even me at my most pissed off can't fight it. And right now... right now I'm all squishy and weak, and I can't even pretend well.

I move over and sit beside Him on the bed. He still smells sick... but that stench is gone, and now I can smell the Slayer on Him, too. I wonder, for a second, if maybe it'll be Angelus that'll wake up... wonder if Buffy gave Him that all-consuming Happy everybody's so afraid of. Wonder if when those eyes open, if they'll be amber or brown. I wonder how I feel about that possibility. I wonder what will happen if I touch Him...

Just for a second, I reach out and brush His lips with a fingertip. Got a lot of memories of those lips, good and bad. That fine, smooth, soft, cool mouth...

I blink, snapping back like He bit me... which He didn't. I was about to bloody kiss Him again! Oh... Oh no. No. I'm not going there. I'm not gonna lie down beside Him and close my eyes and be His little bitch, or pretend He's my Master like I sometimes did with Dru (and always did, with Darla). Uh uh. This demon's done being anybody's whore. I hate this souled fucker, and I'm going downstairs right now and getting my shirt, my fucking ruined coat, the rest of that gin, and telling the Slayer to go fuck Herself. Then I'm getting the Hell out of this loonybin, once and for all. Fuck the chip, fuck the Hellmouth, fuck my fucking Sire and His bloody...

"Will?"

Every square inch of me -- mind and all -- freezes solid. It takes all my energy to make myself not turn around and respond to that soft call.

(Ignore Him. Pretend you didn't hear Him. Pretend you didn't just spend the last two days worrying about Him like some woman who's husband's gone off to war. Keep walking. Don't say anything. Just...)

"Yeah."

(Damn it.)

"Are we... is this...Hell?"

Oh, Jesus H. What a fucking drama queen. He's been there, what the Hell's He asking me for?

"No. It's your damn froofy foof hotel, ya wanker."

"Oh."

He quiet again, but I can still hear Him breathing.

"Are you really here?" He asks, all soft and quiet, like a wounded puppy just waiting for me to turn around and kick Him, "You're not... here to... you..." He swallows so hard, I can hear it, and God only knows what the Hell He was about to say.

I still can't look at Him. If I turn around now, I'm good and fucked.

He tries to move. And fails, if the pained noise He makes is any sign.

Oh, buggering bloody Hell. I turn around and march over to the nightstand, pour Him a glass of water, and sit down beside Him on the bed again. I manage to lift His carcass upright enough for Him to gulp down one glass, then another, and another, and then ease Him back down to the pillows, all without looking at His face even once. I focus on His half-hard dick, instead. Believe me, that's a Hell of a lot easier.

But not quite easy enough, my body tells me. "Should be covered up, mate. You're sickly," I mumble, and start tugging the coverlet over His legs.

He stops me. "Too hot."

When He does that, our hands touch, and now, damnit, I have to look at Him, because there's literally a current of something running between us, and I can feel every damn bit of His pain. When I look into His eyes, for the first time in a hundred goddamn years (the last few of which I've been trying my hardest to hate Him... and doing pretty well, I might add.)...

I look into them now, and in a split second, I'm a bloody lovesick fledgling again.

NO, DAMNIT! I'm not going to be this do-gooder's DOG! I'm the Big Bad! I'm the Master, and I don't fucking CARE ABOUT HIM! I'm a DEMON! I'm EVIL, and...

And then He reaches up. It looks so hard because He's so weak, but He does it anyway. He touches my cheek and He says,

"My Will."

Two words. Two stupid fucking words. Last time, it was six.

"Yeah, Angel. I'm here." I even call Him by that fruity-ass name.

That's when it really hits me. Feelings born from Blood aside, I love this tosser in His own right. Him with His damn honor and Destiny and His friggin' Slayer soulmate and eyes so full of ghosts, it's like being eviscerated just to look into them.

Angel just lays there and stares up at me... and it's something all new, this feeling. Bigger than the love of things I've always counted on in this world. Something bigger than the universe. Than everything. Than eternity. A hundred years apart, and look at us -- right back where we started. But now when I see His tortured soul in His eyes...

Now I see me in it.

"Will, I..."

I put my hand over His mouth. "Whatever you're about to say, don't. Just... keep your piehole shut, okay?"

There's a lot more in me than that. Lots of cussing, mostly. Insults. Nasty nicknames. The usual. But underneath is this new thing that I just don't think I'm ready to look at yet, and I'm sure as Hell not ready to talk about. Especially with Him, considering it's all I can do to admit to myself that maybe I don't hate Him so much, and I'm actually glad He's not dead. More's a whole lot too much to ask of me, right now.

He nods, so I take my hand away.

"You hungry?" I ask Him.

He nods again. Boy's awful literal about His instructions.

"I'll go heat ya up a pint," I say, and start to get up. He grabs my hand with a surprising strength and stops me, forcing me to look at Him again.

"Thanks," He whispers, those damn puppy eyes getting all wet and soul-ly.

I don't know which of a hundred painful things that've happened to me in the past hundred or so years that are His fault that He's talking about, but... Hell, I'll take it.

"No trouble, mate."

I can't help it. I squeeze His hand before I walk away.

Bloke's got to give His Sire some kind of due, I guess. Even if he is a wanker with a soul.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *A slowly recovering Angel thinks about Blood Ties, and receives some surprising attention from his Childe as he fights to regain his health and sanity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things Angel is flashing back to are symbolized thus: (*Speech*) (~Sound/Motion~) (thought)

(~THWAP~)  
(*Again, love.*)  
(*Oh... little lizards singing... no puppy in that garden!*)  
(*Yes, I know. The Lord's Prayer, please.*)  
(*The rain!*)  
(~THWAP~)  
(*Prayers, Drusilla.*)  
(~SOB~)  
(*Our Lord... come now, dearest.*)  
(*O-our... L-lord... who art in... H-h...*)  
(*Heaven, Drusilla. Our Lord, Who art in Heaven...*)  
(~SOB~)  
(~THWAP!~)  
(*AAAAAAAAA!*)  
(*OUR LORD WHO ART IN FUCKING HEAVEN, DRUSILLA!*)  
(*Daddy! The snakes have black tails... they BURN!*)  
(*If you hit her much more, she won't have any skin left.*)  
(*Mind your business, woman. Drusilla...*)  
(*It's dark in the Bad Place, Daddy...Don't touch them! They'll burn out your eyes! Mummy?*)  
(*You've no mother, child.*)  
(~Chuckle~ *Daddy ate her.*)  
(*Hold your tongue, please, Darla.*)  
(*Or what? What will you do if I don't, boy?*)  
(*Why, take this whip to you, love.*)  
(*Oooh. In that case...*)  
(*Later. Drusilla? Your prayers. You'll not feed until ye've said them.*)  
(*DARK! DARK! NO LIGHT AT ALL BETWEEN THE TREES! THEY'VE GOT NO STRING! ALL THE RAYS HAVE GONE BUT TWO! YOU CAN'T SEE THE RAIN THERE!*)  
(*Now see what you've done, Darla? You've upset her. Dru... Our Father, Who Art in Heaven...You know the words...*)  
(*NOTHING! NOTHING! NOTHING!EMPTY!HEAVY!DADDY HURTS!*)  
(*He'll hurt worse if you don't pray, you little loon.*)  
(*Please. If you can't abide the way I raise my Childer, I'd ask you to leave.*)  
(~THWAP!~)  
(*Once more, Princess. Our Father...*)  
(*YOU'LL BURN! YOU'LL BE IN THE DARK AND HEAVY NIGHT FOREVER AND THEY'LL KILL YOUR SOUL AND THE BIRDIES EAT ROCKS IN HELL!*)  
(~sigh~ *We don't have souls, child. Fine. No prayers? No dinner for you, then.*)  
(~THWAP!THWAP!THWAP!THWAP!~)  
(*DAAAAAADDDDDYYYYYYY!*)

I jerk upright into utter darkness. My night vision fails me. For a while, I'm confused. Am I in London? It's hard to draw breath, and the shadows press down on my chest like boulders. I close my eyes. It hurts to be upright, so I lie back down. Every movement is like a hundred hot pokers in my side. And I know how that feels from experience.

Did Drusilla know? Even then, did she know? Did that moment happen, or is it just more Hell? More darkness...

I've seen the sunlight twice in the past 250 years. I'm no stranger to darkness, whether literal or metaphorical. The specter of madness, the shadow of enforced solitude, the void of never-ending hunger. I've been a walking Dark Night of the Soul for a quarter of a millennium.

Those two occasions when I was blessed by the sun were flukes. Tears in the fabric of reality that is my existence. I don't even play those images in my mind anymore. They're aberrations, not truth. And remembering them burns me as deeply as the sun itself might. No comfort. Too much pain.

But there are other kinds of light, too. Other things that can warm a soul trapped in eternal darkness. The trust and devotion of good friends. The knowledge that you've reached out and truly made a difference in the life of someone who was lost. The possibility of forgiveness...

(*DAAAAADDDYYYY!*)

And opening your eyes after what you were certain was yet another eternity burning in Hell, to find the two beings you've loved most in your dark forever asleep in the loveseat they've set by your bed.

They're so beautiful, both of them... He, leaning against the arm, snow-white head resting on his hand, mouth hanging open, a little stain of drool on his chin. She, golden and tan, lithe and so alive... so young... tucked up against him, her arms loosely around his waist, his arm around her fine shoulders, clutching her warmth to his side like the blankets he always used to hog in our bed.

(*Keep your hands off her, you filthy pig!*)  
(*WHAT DID YOU CALL ME, BOY?*)  
(*PIG! I CALLED YOU A FUCKING PIG! WHAT, ARE YOU DEAF?*)  
(*I see. Well. If that's the way you feel, William...*)

I blink at them a few times. Are they really here? Do I really remember Spike crying, begging me not to abandon him again? Do I remember Buffy lying beside me, healing me with the touch of her small hands?

(*Gosh, I was hoping we could get back together. What do you think? Do we have a shot?*)

I don't know. And my heart... my soul... doesn't care. It feels real. I'm not in Hell. I'm here, in my bedroom, and they're here too. I could still be dreaming... I might be delirious... but the pain in every inch of my body... the throbbing behind my eyes... the hunger... all tell me that I'm not. I am seeing them. The rest is just an echo of madness.

(*Could it be there's no Hell?*)

I should have questions. What happened to me? Where did I go when my sanity left me, and I was haunted by... I don't know what...

(*Sire... leave the light on, would you?*)  
(~chuckle~ *What have ye ta be afraid of, boy? You're a God.*)  
(*You know she's afraid of the dark. She cries.*)  
(*Well, that's not your concern, is it? She's not yours. She's mine, and I rather like it when she cries.*)  
(*Bastard.*)  
(*I suppose... if ye care to be technical. My Mother did make a fine meal.* ~chuckle~)

It's all darkness, now. Why are they here? Especially him. Where are the others? What happened to Darla and Dru? God... what have I done?

(*And yet, somehow, I just can't seem to care.*)

Why are Buffy and Spike lying so close together, their scents intermingled like they've been...

(*You actually sleep with this guy?*)

Okay, so... I do have questions. A lot of them. But I'm so tired, it's all I can do to keep my eyes open and gaze on their beauty... thinking, wondering, and remembering are all too much right now.

(*You won't. No one will remember but me.*)

Whatever happened... whatever's going on between them... why-ever they're here... the logistics don't matter. They are, and that's all I care about. And I have to wonder if my soul really is as tenuously ensconced in my body as I've assumed, because looking at them sends a wave of absolute, pure joy washing through me.

(*Loneliness is about the scariest thing there is, Buffy.*)

They're two rays of light in my darkness. They are forgiveness personified. Hope made flesh. All the things I'd thought I'd lost, peaceful and still right here before me. Two of the so very few of my worst victims still living--or in Spike's case, still existing-- watching over me, like I deserve their tenderness... like I'm worth their concern. Like... oh... God...

A sob chokes out of my aching chest before I can stop it, echoing loudly around the still room, and both the figures at my bedside leap to instant attentiveness.

"WHAT? WHAT!" Spike yelps, his head jerking around, looking for danger.

(*I'm gointa start giving ye laudenum before bed if you keep me up with yer thrashin' another day, boy.*)

Buffy is used to being roused from deep sleep. She leans forward, calmly, and takes my hand. "Are you okay? Do you need something? Water?"

(*Angel... don't be stupid. You're weak. You have to eat. It's not like I don't know you drink blood... Just let me help you.*)

Oh, God... her voice... sweet like honey, and dripping with love. My Buffy...

I can't say anything. I just stare dumbly at her, and shake my head while the tears splash down my face.

(*More than ever, I know how much I love you.*)

"Eh, mate, here... let me," Spike grumbles sleepily, and reaches for the pitcher of water on the nightstand.

(*I'll stake me old Sire myself!*)

I stop his hand by taking it. His eyes swing around, wide with surprise. I hold his hand and Buffy's, and we sit there in the dark, a circuit of blood and affection, pain and memories. I hold their hands and look back and forth between them... eyes like summer moss... eyes like the sky before a storm. The very breath of my heart and soul, and the product of my flesh and Blood. The sum of me.

"I love you," I tell them.

Spike rolls his eyes and looks away. Tears well in Buffy's, and she smiles.

"We love you, too," she whispers, and squeezes my hand.

"Speak for yourself," Spike gripes.

I tug on both of them. I want to feel them close to me. I want to keep them near and safe and never let any pain or sadness come to them, ever again.

Buffy doesn't hesitate. She's so giving... so open, even now. After everything that she's been through... after all the hurt I caused her in her life, it amazes me that she's still so full of love. She curls up against my chest, so tiny and warm... my dead heart nearly throbs to have her so close again. She feels so good...

(*Close your eyes...*)

I shouldn't. We shouldn't. This is dangerous. It could go too far. I want her so much, still, even now...

(*Buffy, maybe we shouldn't...*)  
(*Shhh... just kiss me.*)

I don't care. I'm too tired... too drained and hurt to care. I just need to feel her... alive, solid, beautiful in my arms. Her heartbeat like a lullaby against my chest. Just for now. Just for tonight. Just so I can remember how to hold on. Remember what something besides regret and anger and loss feel like...

(*You're not alone...*)

I look up, and Spike stands there, staring down at me, a war of emotions raging on his features. Hate. Concern. Jealousy. Love. Desire. Resentment.

(*Things change.*)  
(*Not us, man! Not demons!*)

"Will... please," I say quietly. I need him, too. The walking remnant of all I once was, and Powers willing, never will be again. I need him to accept me the way I am now... forgive me for the things I've done to him, and maybe... maybe we can reconnect the twisted creatures that we've become. Freaks in a universe of monsters.

He sighs deeply. Funny. He used to mock me for breathing. I wonder when he started doing it.

(*It's stupid, is all I'm sayin'.*)  
(*And you're so damn wise, William. Two years out of the grave, and ye know more than your Sire, that it?*)

"Oh, fuck me," he complains, and climbs in the other side of the bed, lying flat on his back behind me.

(*Sleep on the floor, then, if you don't like my choice in companions. Better yet... sleep on the doormat like the dog you are, insolent little bastard!*)

I smile, bury my face in Buffy's soft hair, and breathe in her sweetness. It's enough, for now.

(*This freakshow...*)

Spike slides closer. I hold Buffy tightly to me... she's already asleep, her breath slow and easy. I feel my Childe's cool chest against my still feverish back. He rests an arm around me, and his lips make the faintest contact with the nape of my neck... a millisecond, no longer, and as he nestles up to me, I hear him whisper,

"I love you, too, you big, stupid pouf."

(*Sire, PLEASE!*)  
(*I don't recall giving you leave to beg, William.*)  
(*You're hurting her!*)  
(~laugh~ *That's why they call it torture, and not pleasure, boy! Pay attention.*)

I close my eyes and let blessed sleep take me, hoping that there will be no more nightmares, as long as I have my family close. The pain can wait until tomorrow.

It's not everything. It's not perfect happiness. But it's as near to it as this damned soul is likely to get.

(*I love you, Angel...*)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
The refrigerator is empty.

It took me nearly an hour to drag myself down here, starving, and there's nothing. Not even a drop of the couple of quarts of blood I put in less than two weeks ago.

But there's beer. Guinness. Two cases of it.

Spike and his twisted priorities. My head hurts.

I sigh, and sit down on one of the barstools at the island. I really can't be annoyed. After all, I don't know if he drank all the blood, or if they had to feed it to me when I was...

Insane. Out of my head. So far gone, I've lost an entire week and a half of my eternal life. In the big scheme of things, I don't guess that it's a long time. I've lost entire decades, before. For example, I couldn't give you much detail about where I was, or what I was doing, during World War II.

But when you're trapped in a Hell of your own creation--or a literal Hell, come to think of it--ten days is forever.

And there's still Darla and Drusilla to deal with. A week and half, they've been free, and Gods only know the havoc and death they've caused.

The lawyers being only the first.

(my fault)

I think back on that moment, now... that split second when I took all of those lives in my hands... made the decision to condemn them to a grisly death... threw that deadbolt. I can hear the echo of the door slamming shut. Smell the stench of horrified disbelief. See the horror on Manners' face...the terror on Lila's... the smirk on Lindsey's... I made myself their judge, jury, and executioner. Spat in the face of the Powers...

(murderer. blasphemer. monster.)

I can't. I can't deal with that right now. Later, there'll be plenty of time for regret... an eternity for penance and guilt.

I don't need Hell. It's right here in my head. Walking the streets of my city. The last of my line...

"Oi, mate. Stay outta my beer."

Except him.

I watch Spike walk into the kitchen, all swagger and bluster, and I can't help but feel some bizarre sense of comfort that he's here. A surprising amount of affection and gratitude toward my once vicious Childe, for saving my life. For staying with me. For taking care of Buffy.

"Oh... God, just... wipe that mushy look off your face," he bitches, swinging open the fridge and grabbing a beer. "Couldn't stand seeing the Slayer all weepy and mopey over your sorry hide, is all. And shouldn't you be in bed?"

A short statement that hints at such a long, complicated story, I can't wrap my mind around all of its implications. Of course, a lot of my consciousness is still dark and out of focus, so... Give me time. I'll work it out.

"I was hungry," I inform him, and wonder if he'll get the hint.

"Yeah, well. We're a bit light on the groceries 'till the Slayer and Wussley get back from market. Have a beer. On me."

He tosses me one, which I set on the table, and he pops his open,downing it in a few gulps, grabs another, and plunks down on the stool across from me.

He's a beautiful creature, Spike. Pale and shining like silver coated in black, the only splash of color his chestnut brows and eyes the color of steel. I'd forgotten how handsome he is... and it feels pretty strange to think about it now.

Spike... or rather, William... was once my closest companion. Closer, in many ways, than Darla. He was the only being I trusted at my back. He belonged to me, once, in a way that nothing and no one else ever has, or ever could again. Lover. Brother. Friend. Blood.

"What?" he snaps in irritation, "What'rya gawking at me for?"

It's nice to see his temper hasn't improved. I try not to smile at the warm familiarity that washes through me. I'm in rough shape, if Spike's nasty attitude is a comfort.

"Nothing," I say. There's no use, really, in sharing my feelings with him. I sincerely doubt he's interested.

Before he can respond, dizziness hits me, and I sway a little... hunger and weakness, my body burning itself up from furious healing. And that swirling vortex of shadow still hanging, pulling on the edges of my mind. A hollow space in my memory. Things I don't want to know, beckoning to me. The echo of voices...

Spike's up and has his arm around my shoulders in less than a heartbeat.

"Tol' ya you shouldn't be up yet," he grumbles, and I swear I can smell genuine worry on his skin as he helps me rise from the stool, "Bloody ijit."

We make our way slowly across the lobby. My body's unbelievably stiff, every movement painful, and every step I force myself to take makes me happier that I can't remember what's happened to me in these past ten days.

This scene is just too sad and comical to bear: the young, strong, healthy son supporting the old, ailing, decrepit father as they totter up the stairs... A rather fitting irony, I think...How many times did I flay him raw, then leave him hanging from the ceiling, biting back screams of pain as his blood puddled on the floor under his dangling feet?

Spike deposits me with surprising tenderness on my bed, and pulls the blankets over me.

"Move your ass outta that sack again, and I'll skin it for you. You got me?"

I try to smile, but mostly wince. "I got you."

(*I think yer hide'll make a lovely handbag for my mate, whelp.*)

He nods, and turns to leave. Frankly, that's what I expect him to do. But instead, he sits down on the edge of the bed, his back to me.

He picks at the fuzzballs on the comforter, and I can feel his tension... his emotions in turmoil much the same way they were last night.

Spike is the very picture of an abused child. I raised him with just the right mixture of brutality and affection, and then, in his estimation at least, abandoned him. When we met again, all those years later, we were mortal enemies. He was a symbol of everything I despised about myself, then... a walking, cursing, killing, drinking reminder of the many evil pleasures I once took from being a vampire. I had too many clear memories of too many nights in his arms... hunting with him, laughing with him, torturing him, and every time I saw his face, it only increased my shame.

(*I love you, Sire...*)  
(*Hush, boy. Sleep.*)

When I lost my soul again... the creature that returned wasn't his Sire, either. The demon is damaged now... insane. Nothing remains of the appreciation for the sensual pleasures of unlife that once drove me. Nothing but hatred and an all-consuming desire to destroy. The Slayer... the world... and him.

But I was still the alpha. I still held his life in my hands. And I spent those months systematically demolishing everything that Spike had managed to achieve for himself. I dominated him in the most humiliating of possible ways. Not with physical violence. That, he was used to. Instead, I hurt him psychologically... emotionally... every chance I got. Wounds far deeper than any I inflicted on him as a fledgling.

(*And as a guest, if there's anything I can do for you... Any... responsibility I can assume while you're spinning your wheels... Anything I'm not already doing, that is...*)

And now... Now he has this chip in his head... an electronic leash on his demon. He doesn't know what or who he is, anymore. He's lost everything he once counted on -- his Sire, his ability to hunt, his mate... I imagine we're more similar today than we were a century ago. Closer to equal.

But it seems he's gained something new, too. Something that I sincerely doubt he wanted, and I'll bet he doesn't have an inkling of understanding about. Otherwise, he wouldn't be here, looking like he wants to say something, while at the same time, desperately wanting to be anywhere else but in this room. He wouldn't be having whatever kind of relationship he's having with Buffy...  
(don't think about that.)

He definitely wouldn't be crying. And I wouldn't be lying here, completely at a loss for what to do to ease his pain. Should I say something? Touch him somehow? Why is he doing this? He doesn't owe me anything...

I have no more answers than he does.

"Look," he says finally, his voice soft and stained with his confusion. "I don't know what the Hell's wrong with me. I don't know what all this is about. I don't want to sit here and analyze everything, or play therapy with you, or whatever you're thinking. I'm just... oh, sod-all... I'm fucking glad you're not dust, is all. And... The Slayer... she... I... Oh, fuck."

He covers his face in his hands, and weeps softly. I reach up and gently pry one away. His teary eyes meet mine.

Vampires don't, as a rule, have souls. But as my own Sire once told me, they do love, in their way... at least the ones who were capable of it as humans do. And I've always believed that the degree of that potential has to do with Blood Ties, with the particular demon in question, and with the remnant personality of the human they once were.

William was always more affectionate and sensitive than most. That's why I chose him. I know that once upon a time, he loved me. I know that he loved Drusilla. I think... he might love Buffy. And I believe that all of these things boil down to our shared Blood. The bond that has pulled us across a million miles and a hundred years, to this moment. The details of the time between hardly matter.

"I don't understand everything either," I assure him, "I might be the Elder, but that doesn't necessarily make me any wiser."

He snorts. "No kidding. Some soddin' Master you are."

The word is like a burning sword in my gut. Master. The one who wields the pain. "I'm not your Master, Spike. I'm nobody's Master."

He drills into me with those turbulent eyes. "You really believe that, don't you? You think just because you've got a damn soul that you're excused from all the endless fucking vampire rules?" He shakes his head. "No wonder you're such a bloody head-case! I'll spell it out for you, just to make sure it gets through your guilt-stuffed, Cro-Magnon skull, okay? You made me. I've got your damn blood in my sorry veins. You whelped me. You can't just say, 'Oh, that doesn't fit in with my mission statement' and make it go away. Just because you don't stick it to me or beat me senseless anymore doesn't change the fact that I'm yours. I exist because of you. Nothing you do or say can change that, short of staking me. And nothing ever will. Believe me, I don't like it either, but, there it is."

(*Ye'll live with me, and be mine... have everything you've ever dreamed of...forever.*)

It's a deep, profound truth. And coming from him, even more so. It's something I've never taken much time to think about, with the exception of those days when I had to hunt Penn.... and now, with Darla...

How tied am I still, to those of my Bloodline? Feeling Spike's inner turmoil, his anger and love as accutely as I do makes me wonder.

I never loved Penn. Making him was about making Darla jealous. Whereas, I had a very deep affection for William. If affection is the right word... He was mine. My possession.

"What do you want me to say?" I ask him.

Fury flashes in his eyes. "How the Hell am I supposed to know?"

So. So, he doesn't know, and I don't know. We've reached yet another impasse. What does he want? What do I want? What happens next?

Before I realize what's happening, my face is trapped between his lean hands, and his lips smash against mine. The kiss is a violent shock to my system. The first real, intimate contact I've experienced, besides Buffy, in... forever. His mouth is so familiar... the cool lines I automatically explore with my tongue.. the flicker of his against my palate, my teeth...

(*Ah, Gods, boy... ye feel like Heaven...*)

Like blood... a need you can set aside momentarily, but that sooner or later, always returns to consume you once more. Hunger. Always hunger. The most fundamental feeling of all, for a vampire, is this endless need... the constant starvation for sensation. Lust.

The heat of it rushes through me, and a moan I didn't mean to make breaks from my chest, into his mouth. I tangle my hands in his hair, and pull him down on top of me, pain be damned.

I need this. I need him. Right now. We're the same, he and I... One. It's not love songs and poetry and souls united. It's simple. Demons, appetite, and Blood.

"Sire..." he groans, "Gods, Angelus..."

(*Do ya like that, me beautiful boy? Hm?*)

His hands and mouth wander... a hundred years of history on my skin. He laps at my throat, simulating feeding, and a growl rumbles in my chest. The demon protests, the man hardens. Half of me wants to flip him over and drive my pain into him... dominate him... prove to myself that he is still mine. That something in this dimension belongs to me besides this... agony.  
But this is his testimonial... his speech to me, and he feels so good, I don't want to move. I don't want it to stop. I try to ignore the demon, and let him have it. I don't want to be in control anymore.

I hiss as his cool tongue trails a path down the meridian of my starving body. He traces the pain of what feels like miles of fading scars... flicks it over my nipples, and suckles at them when they pebble at his touch. Little whimpering noises--pup noises--tickle from his throat as he moves downward.

"My boy... my Will..." I gasp.

Oh, God... there's so much for him, inside of me. So much I'd denied or forgotten. His hands... his mouth... just the sensation of being close to his hard body... smelling my blood in him.

A memory slams into my brain... a fair-haired fledgling... a stranger...sewers... a hypodermic... Was that me? Did I take that immortal boy like two dogs in a puddle of slime because he reminded me of my William... my long lost Childe? His crying... the endless wailing for the loss of his Sire...

(*Dust! DUST! HIS DUST!*)

Shivering wracks my frame. The room spins. Nausea clutches at my abdomen. I wretch. I can't feel Spike anymore... there's nothing but pain and blood... filth... darkness... the drunk I killed. The demon woman I took home from the bar... she held me... promised me hope. I used her body. Drank her. Oh, God.

"Oh... God..." I hear myself sobbing... the sound a million miles away. "What have I done? What have I done? Oh, Jesus! Oh, God, I'm sorry!"

"Shh..." Soothing sounds break through the haze of anguish. Soft hands caressing my face... cool lips... the taste of blood and beer and Buffy..."It's okay, Angel. It's okay. It's over. You're safe, now."

Safe? No... it's not me that's not safe...It's not okay. It's not over. It never will be. I can never make up for everything I've done... my family... my village... Drusilla... him... Buffy... Jenny... so many others... and these last... I've murdered them, abused them when I had my soul... What excuse is there for that?

I push Spike off and huddle at the head of the bed. "Get away from me. I can't!"

Hell is where I should be. Darkness. No sensation. No love. Damned as I have damned them with my Hell in their veins. Where have I heard that? My Curse... the Curse of my desire...my weakness. Oh, God.

(*Sire, PLEASE! Take her down!*)

(*Was it m-me? Was I not... good??*)

(*Angel - please! People are going to die!*)

"Hey! Stop this!" my Childe orders, and I can hear the Master's authority in his voice. When did we switch places? When did I become so feeble, and he so strong? "You fucked up. So bloody what? You're a damn hero anyhow. Sire... please... stop." His command turns to a plea at the last. His lips return to mine, soft and gentle. Reassuring.

His tenderness hurts.

"Will... no... I can't."

"You can," he whispers, "You have to. It's your damn Destiny."

Destiny. The word is like cool water on burned skin. A whisper of peace. I feel it, I believe it, somehow, and it stills me again.

"I love you," Spike murmurs into my lips, "I've loved you as long as I can remember. You're all I've got, now. I'm not letting you go again."

None of this is real. It can't be. This is just more Hell. More torture. He can't...

Oh, God... his hands on me... between my legs. Like a tether to the physical, and my mind snaps back to it.

I open my eyes and watch... captured. Enraptured by the sight of my Childe, my Blood, setting my body, my erection free from the confines of my clothes... bare demon skin and hunger... his cool mouth wrapping tight around my shaft, taking me in... sucking... licking... stroking.

I'm empty of all but this. Shadows chased away by pure sensation. Madness, pain, starvation, all transformed to pure, overwhelming bliss.

Yes. Oh, yes. These chains to the world... this bond of sex and flesh, mouth, hands, cock... I watch him draw me in, and out again. He looks up at me with those speaking eyes, and yes... he remembers. He forgives.

(can you be forgiven, Liam?)

I clutch at his hair... my body takes control... I thrust up into that mouth... and ohhhhh.... that perfect mouth, anchoring me here. Insisting that I stay.

(*Please, Sire... stay with me...*)

Hell is never having another being touch you with love or affection or kindness... any intimacy... any purpose at all but pain. Hell is being alone in a bubble of denied sensation... of frozen, absolute solitude. Hell is being me. Here. Alone. Until this moment. As I come, I arch into his well-remembered embrace, and I howl... ecstasy. Heaven.

He takes it all, drinks me as I once drank him. I'm shaking with the intensity of being fully in my body for... the first time in I don't know how long. My orgasm like a jolt of electricity through my every burning nerve. Pain. Exquisite pleasure.

And hunger...

I drag him upward and tear fangs I didn't feel descend into his throat. He cries out... and again when I wrap my hand around his cock and stroke him, hard and fast.

The rhythm of blood that never circulates.

"MASTER!" he shouts.

I pull away from his artery. "Spike...," I growl at him, "Drink me...please..."

Neither of us is Master here, not anymore. I continue to stroke him, looking into his eyes during that moment of indecision. I hear his thoughts: Should he take the risk? Will I punish him after? What's my game?

But it's only a moment. Then, he redefines us both by wrapping himself around me and sinking his own teeth into my flesh. He grunts as he begins to drink, whimpers softly as he nurses from my vein, and yes... GOD YES, I'M ALIVE!

I slam my mouth back to the wound I've opened in him, and drink my Self out of him as he drinks his Self out of me. He fucks my hand, both of us purring and growling and groaning. His body begins to quake and jerk, and he pulls away from the sweet fount of my throat as he screams.

"OHJESUSCHRISTANGELYESGODYESSIREYESDON'TSTOPDON'TSTOPDON'T...UGGGGHHHH!"

I pull him closer, draw harder from his vein, glutting on the flavor of the pleasure in his blood as his dead seed spurts into my hand, over his belly, my chest. Utterly spent, he sags and collapses against me, sliding in his stickiness on my skin, until he finally comes to rest in my lap with his head in the crook of my shoulder.

His wild panting is musical... and silly. This whole moment is comical. I'm so tired, now, I can barely stay upright, and I hold him to me as I fall to my side on the bed. I have an almost irresistible urge to giggle. I want to jump up and... dance, or something. I don't know what. I hurt all over. Inside and out. There's so much of me still mortally wounded. But I'm full, and so alive. Because of him. Because of what my soulless Childe has so freely just given me. His dead blood hums in my veins.

I still don't understand why he's here.

"Spike..."

"Shut up. Just shut up and go to sleep, berk," he snaps, pulling the blankets over the tangle of arms and legs that we've become, and burrows into my chest. "Be quiet. You need to rest."

Rest for the wicked. Yes. I close my eyes, my body still wrapped around him and... awash in the warmth satiated hunger, know no more. Even Hell is silent.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buffy walks in on something mind-boggling, and our threesome get into a knockdown, drag out jealous fight, in which some old issues are raised...again...out loud.

Okay. I am Buffy, the Vampire Slayer. The Chosen One. I live on the mouth of Hell. I have seen some of the scariest, ugliest, weirdest, most horrifying sights you can imagine, and hardly even blinked. I've survived nightmares far worse than anything Stephen King ever even thought of on his craziest day. I'm somehow tied by blood to not one, but two vampires, one of which is completely soulless, and has spent the majority of the time we've known each other torturing me in some way. The other has a soul, and we've spent the majority of the time we've known each other in deep, agonizing, ironic love. But we made love once, which turned him evil and really psychotic, resulting in me being forced to run him through with a sword and condemn him to Hell. Add to all of this the fact that my friends include a pretty motley bunch of Witches, werewolves, and ex-demons, and...

I think I can safely say I've seen a lot of stuff that would turn most people's brains to mush.

So you'd think I was pretty unflappable, right? That old Buffy could walk in on pretty much any scene, no matter how utterly bizarre, without even skipping a beat, and say something like, "Huh. Anybody want pizza?"

And, I mean... it's not like I didn't know how... close they once were. I figured that one out all by myself, as a matter of fact. And I have gained a whole new understanding and appreciation of all the complexities of the  
Childe/Sire relationship. Plus, Spike, despite all his characteristic bitching, insulting and cursing, hasn't exactly been hiding his feelings through all of this. We did all sleep together in Angel's bed last night. Spike had his arm draped protectively over him, his hand on my arm. I think it's safe to say that we're all pretty intimate, now.

So... why am I so freaked by what I'm seeing? I knew Spike was going to come up here the minute Wesley and I left to go shopping, no matter how he grumbled and sneered at me when I told him to keep an eye on Angel while we went out for a while.

But I think I missed something really important while I was gone. I knew I shouldn't have stopped at Neiman Marcus, but... it's so rare that I get to come out and do some real shopping, now that my dad is gone.

I know... "What the Hell was I doing shopping when Angel was practically dead?" Well... believe it or not, Spike is the only other per... okay, creature... that I absolutely trust with his safety. And considering all the nervous energy that's been building in me... and, yeah, sexual as well... with no opportunities to slay...or... other things... I've got to work out my Angel-Stress somehow, you know. And for the time being, I want to avoid sleeping with Spike. Not that it's not good... it is. Really good, actually. But... there's something depressing about sobbing your way through sex, and having your partner crying right along with you, knowing that you're both heartbroken and sobbing over the same someone. Someone who's not there.

I'm digressing, I know. It's because I'm so... stunned. My brain has just completely checked out over this. I'm frozen to the spot, and that old cliche about car wrecks pops into my head. What I'm looking at is totally mind-boggling. Wrong. Insane.

But I can't look away.

It's like something straight out of a movie... something romantic and tear-jerky... soft and erotic... and it stars my two very male, very macho vampire lovers.

It's by far the most disturbing thing I've ever seen.

They must know I'm here. They must be able to smell me... hear my racing heartbeat... feel me as strongly as I feel them. Do they really not care that I'm standing here, staring at them? Or are we all so intimate now that they just take it as a matter of course that I can witness something this personal?

They're... stunning. All pale, hard muscle, limbs entwined, tousled hair... both of them so beautiful and rugged and so completely, thoroughly male...

Just for the record? Yes, I am jealous.

Spike's voice is unusually soft and gentle... sweet and resonant, each sound he makes a caress in its own right. A deep statement of love for the vampire between his legs.

"Return at night and take me,  
Beloved sensation, return and take me --  
When the memory of the body awakens,  
And old desire again runs through the blood,"

Angel's eyes are closed, and he has a soft, peaceful smile on his lips.

"When the lips and the skin remember,  
And the hands feel as if they touch again."

Spike strokes Angel's hair with his free hand, as if he's a beloved pet. HisSire has his head resting on his thigh, and his frame tucked up between hisknees. The blond vampire stops touching him only long enough to turn thepage.

"Return and take me at night,  
When the lips and the skin remember..."

Did I already mention how weird this is? Angel resting happily in hisChilde's lap, while said Childe -- who not so long ago was a murderingfiend -- reads poetry to him from a worn leather book?

I am completely dumbstruck.

"That was beautiful," Angel says softly, not opening his eyes or moving aninch.

"Another, then?" Spike asks.

Angel's smile broadens, but he still doesn't look. "What do you think,Buffy? Should he read another?"

I think my response is something like, "Uh... urk?"

Spike peers up at me like I'm the biggest moron he's ever laid eyes on. "Didya get pepperoni?"

I'm pretty sure I manage to nod. Angel's eyes finally open and focus on me. He looks so much better... my relief almost cuts through the haze of my shock.

"Hey," he calls, and pats the bed next to him. "Come sit."

I blink dumbly at him.

Spike rolls his eyes. "Aw, Christ, Slayer. Stop gawking like you walked in on us shagging or something, and come sit on the damn bed before you make Peaches cry again."

Angel's smile widens. Still no teeth, but... I'm afraid either his face is going to shatter from straining all those underused muscles, or he's going to lose his soul any second.

Okay, Summers. You made love with one and had sex with the other. You've kicked both their asses on numerous occasions. They've been there for you when you needed them, and shouldn't you be glad that Angel seems so happy? Just get over your idiot seizure and go sit down.

My logical brain is making perfect sense. But apparently, my mouth and body aren't listening. They're still busy staring at Spike and Angel.

"I...there's... pizza?" I mutter, and weakly hold up the Giuseppe's box like a shield.

Spike gently dislodges Angel from his lap and jumps off the bed.

I have to admit... Spike does have a really nice body. The way his black Levi's hug his lean hips snugly, his bare chest so pale and smooth, and... was he actually reading poetry to Angel just now?

He approaches me, glaring down as he snatches the pizza box from my grasp. "Took you long enough. Thought Neiman Marcus closed at 6."

I just frown at him. Asshole.

Angel props himself up on one elbow and smiles at me. He's just... beautiful. Endless miles of muscle that barely show signs of the all the damage he suffered just a few days ago. He's wearing these luscious black silk drawstring slacks, and suddenly it's... really, really hot in here...

For somebody who was out of his mind for two weeks--maybe longer--and pretty much on Final Death's doorstep just a while ago, he looks awfully comfortable and content.

I don't even want to start thinking about why. Knowing that Spike loves him as much as I do is one thing, but visuals thereof just aren't a place I'm ready to go yet. Especially considering that *I* can't go there.

"Did you get shoes?" Angel asks, nodding toward the forgotten bags in my other hand.

He might as well be speaking Swahili, because I can't seem to respond beyond holding up the bags and nodding.

Angel's smile softens. Now that look, I'm familiar with. That's his 'Silly Buffy... I love you' look. That's my smile, and seeing it makes my tension and confusion leak away like... something really leaky. I finally manage to smile back. Angel pats the bed again.

"Show me," he invites, and he has that old light in his eyes -- the one he always used to get every time I arrived to see him. Or when he'd sit and listen to my babbling as if I was the most fascinating creature on the face of the planet. That little silver twinkle that makes those delicious chocolate orbs shine.

Oh, listen to me, with the Harlequin cliches, now.

Just for me. That look is just for me. He's here... he's alive... he's looking at me like we were never apart, and suddenly, I don't care if every vampire on the planet was in here screwing him while I was gone. It's 1997 again, and I only have abstract, distance knowledge of Angelus. Angel and I haven't been apart for more than a day, while I was at school. Life is still so simple, and nothing else exists but this swelling in my heart, and my mind-numbingly gorgeous 240-something vampire boyfriend wants to see my new shoes.

It's like... swinging. You know, when you're pumping your legs, flying higher and higher, watching the world rush by in a blur of motion, and you're transported right back to a time when life was just one endless recess.

I'm a kid again, and I love this man with every drop of pure, child-like happiness in my soul.

That feeling washes over me. I don't even have words for it. It's become such a stranger to my life that I can barely even recognize it anymore. And I know that he is the only person in the universe who has ever given it to  
me. It takes me over, and the next thing I know, I'm bounding across the room, and I leap onto the bed beside him. The jarring motion causes Angel to wince in pain, and for a split second, my joy balloon deflates a little. But only for a second, because he recovers quickly, that beautiful smile returning like the sun peeking out from behind the clouds after a storm. I want to sing and laugh... dance... all kinds of silly, happy stuff as I dump out my bags beside him.

Angel is completely focused on my movements. He has a comment about every item I hold up for his inspection, like he truly cares about the results of my stress-induced shopping spree. "That color will look nice on you," he tells me, or, "You know, Rayon and Lycra are two of the 20th century's greatest inventions."

Oh... God. I'm so happy.

"Well, I can see you two girls need some time to bond, so... I'm going down to get myself a cold one. Anybody want?" Spike interrupts.

I'd forgotten he was even there, for a minute.

"Yeah," Angel replies, "I'd like some orange juice, please."

"Make that two," I add, grinning at him.

Spike rolls his eyes at me again. "Fine. Great. Your wish is my command, Master," he grumbles, and stuffs a whole slice of pizza in his mouth as he stomps out.

When he's gone, Angel gazes deep into my eyes. "I'm glad you're back."

I reach up and touch his face. He feels so warm, like he's just fed, and looks almost as healthy as I've ever seen him.

"I'm glad you're feeling better," I tell him, and I mean it more than any words I've uttered before in my life.

He turns his head and presses a long, soft kiss into my palm. His eyes close as he does, and he sighs deeply, then looks at me once again.

"I missed you," he admits, and by the depth of emotion in his voice, I don't think he means the couple of hours I was out shopping.

"I missed you too, Angel."

I definitely don't mean over the past few hours. I mean all those endless, hollow days when I never got to look into these eyes, or smell his skin, or hear his voice...

Suddenly, he's coming closer... slow motion... those shining eyes focusing on my lips. Right before our mouths touch, his gaze locks back onto mine.

It's like a storm hitting me... thunder pounding in my veins, lightning striking my every nerve. Wind roaring in my head, soothing rain in my boiling, aching blood.

Angel... kissing Angel... Angel's mouth... Angel's cool tongue... Angel's strong, gentle hands.. Angel... Angel... Angel...

He pulls away slowly, his beautiful features an agonizing mixture of love, desire, and... I don't know what else. Something more profound than anything I remember seeing there before.

"Buffy..." he whispers, his voice like a cool breeze as he caresses my face, and his eyes fill with tears. "Thank you."

Two words. But they say so much...

"Don't." I trace his lips... that jaw... those cheeks... it's like I've never looked into another pair of eyes... never touched another face..."I love you. I would never let anything happen to you, if I could help it."

A sad little smile appears on his lips. "I know. I love you too."

We lie there for a thousand heartbeats, just looking into one another's eyes. My entire body is tingling from the energy that crackles between us, and I'm certain, in that perfect moment, that I've never loved or wanted anything or anyone like I do this man. And I never will again.

That pull... that irresistible desire, draws us together, and the storm suddenly swells as Angel crushes me against him, plundering my mouth with a desperate moan. I return the sentiment with a cry... almost a sob... that is full with the pain of every moment we've spent apart. His gentle, loving hands are suddenly everywhere, devouring me, tracing my body so completely, I think he must be re-memorizing the way I feel. He cups my breasts, teasing my nipples into instant hardness, and a shivering explosion of want begins between my legs.

All my thoughts are gone. All my knowledge, memories, pain.. there's nothing left in me but love, and hunger. No... starvation. I've been wandering in a desert of nothing for a million years, and his body against me... his hands on me... his mouth... the love I can feel washing off of him and over me like a wave... a blessed oasis, at last.

(beloved sensation, come and take me...)

I belong to you, my precious Angel. I always have been, always will be yours... all yours. Only yours.

I've waited forever for this dream to come true. His kisses burning the skin of my belly... my clothes, gone... his vanished... nothing but skin separating us... It must have been magick, because I don't remember either of us taking them off one another.

(when the lips and the skin remember...)

I've never felt a fire like this before. Not with anyone else but him. One night. One night in my whole life, when I was really, truly alive. Only once have my hands truly felt skin... only once has my soft met hard in such glorious perfection...

I'm the one who's been dead. And only he can bring me back to life.

(when the memory of the body awakens...)

We roll over, and his weight is pressed against me. The only blanket that has ever made me warm.

"Buffy..." he murmurs into my ear.

I shiver.

(and old desire again runs through the blood...)

"Yes... Angel..."

Yes. The way it's meant to be. Here. Now. At last.

(when the lips and the skin remember...)

"God...I want you... I want..." he gasps, his lips searing the skin of my throat. That place that always burns for him... his mark.

His. Blood. Oh, God...

"Please... Angel..."

"Ehem."

He freezes above me.

(No. It's my imagination. Ignore it. That's not Spike interrupting us. Oh, please... please, Angel... don't stop...)

He stops.

I won't open my eyes. This is not happening.

Angel quickly pulls the covers over us and rolls off me, dragging me with him, still close in his arms. His needless breath is fast... as fast as mine, and I'm dizzy with the loss of contact... I burrow into his chest.

I will not look. I will not see Spike standing there. Reality hasn't just come crashing down on us again, and I will not remember how we got here or where we've been. There is no Curse that breaks when he and I make love. And I am not crying and shaking so hard, I feel like I'm going to explode.

"Not that this isn't a lot of fun to walk in on, but... I'm not really much in the mood for Angelus' company tonight, okay?"

Oh God.

Angel sighs. "No. It's okay. You're right."

I still can't look. He sits up, pulling me up with him, his arm still locked around my shoulders. I finally open my eyes, clutching Angel and the blankets over me, and look at Spike. If he's smirking, I swear I'm going to take all my anger and pain and frustration out by ripping his head off with my bare hands.

He's not smiling. In fact, he looks almost contrite as he sits down on the bed beside me, and lays his burdens down on the nightstand. Two glasses of orange juice, a bottle of bourbon, and an enormous cappuccino mug of steaming hot blood.

I just glare at him. I know none of this is his fault, but... DAMN IT!

"I hate you," I remind him.

"Yeah, yeah, I know," he answers, and turns to Angel. "O first or OJ?"

Angel kisses the top of my head and leaves his face there, buried in my hair. "O, please."

Spike hands him the mug, and Angel gulps it down. As he does, I roll away and reach for my shirt on the floor, tug it on, and climb out from under the covers. I scoot down to the end of the bed, as far as I can get from both of them, and fight to pull myself together.

I'm so...God. I'm so full of rage and unsated want... and now, complete jealousy.

Spike gently touches my arm. "You all right, pet?"

"NO!" I scream at him, "I'M NOT ALL RIGHT! DON'T FUCKING TOUCH ME!"

He reels like I just hit him, then holds his hands up in a gesture of surrender. "Sorry. Just trying to keep everybody's limbs attached. I'm thinking a moment of perfect happiness isn't quite worth slow dismemberment."

"Fuck you," I snap.

"Buffy..." Angel's soft voice comes from behind me, "He's right."

"Fuck you too!" I sob.

Everybody just sits there for a long time, listening to me cry.

"I'm sorry," Angel apologizes at last, "We should never have... I shouldn't have... started that."

My head snaps up, and I glare at him. "Don't you DARE! DON'T YOU *DARE* TAKE IT BACK!"

His face becomes a mask of such agony, I instantly regret my words.

Regret. Just another in a long history of them, between us. Angel's eyes tick away from mine.

There's so much anger inside of me. I'm doing exactly what I promised myself I wouldn't do... losing my temper... speaking without thinking first, because... oh, God, I hurt. And I can't stop my mouth.

"It's not FAIR!" I shout at Angel, jumping up from the bed, "You can fuck SPIKE, but you can't make love to ME?"

Spike's eyebrows shoot up in surprised amusement. "How'd you..."

"SHUT UP!" I screech at him.

He smirks a little, but obeys.

I turn my rain of fury back on Angel. "WHY!?" Some part of me that's still sane steps back and starts lecturing me that I'm the one who isn't being fair. That I should be glad that Angel is better... proud that it's me that gives him perfect happiness, not Spike. And who am I to talk anyway? But, naturally, I totally ignore that voice. "HOW IS IT OKAY FOR YOU TO BE WITH *HIM*? WHY CAN HE TOUCH YOU, MAKE YOU FEEL GOOD, AND I CAN'T??? WHY???"

Angel looks up again, and I can see frustration, disappointment, and anger easily matching my own in his expression.

"Look who's talking, Buffy! Think about what you're saying!"

I just stand there, shaking. "WHAT??"

His look is hard and hurt. "How can you judge me when you did the exact same thing?"

Oh. Right.

"I... I don't... I didn't..." There goes my speech center again.

"You didn't sleep with Spike?" Angel questions. "Funny, because I can SMELL him on you! Are you trying to tell me he wasn't... He didn't have his HANDS all over you? His filthy MOUTH?"

"HEY!" Spike objects.

"SHUT UP!" We both scream at him.

"Oh, fuck this. You two want to fight like a couple of retarded housecats, you go right ahead. I'm going to drink until I forget I shagged either of you idiots." He gets up, grabs his bourbon and stomps out, slamming the  
suite door behind him.

"That's none of your business!" I shout at Angel, "I'm not justifying ANYTHING I do to you!"

"So, is that a yes or a no?" He counters.

"Wait. Wait! How the Hell did this become just about me? I'm not the one who..."

Not the one who what, Buffy? Not the one who screwed Spike on Angel's kitchen table two nights ago?

"Well, you're sleeping with him too!" I finally manage.

A brilliant parry.

Angel takes a deep breath, and looks away. "That's different."

Is he KIDDING?

"How do you figure, exactly? Because you're both GUYS? Because you're both over the century mark? HOW?"

"He's my Childe," he declares softly, like that explains everything. Which, if I was anywhere even close to rational right now, it probably would. "It's a very different kind of relationship, Buffy. Different emotions. What Spike and I share comes from... it's... hard to explain. But it has nothing to do with the way that I feel about you."

"NO? Oh, right. It's a bloodthirsty demon thing, I wouldn't understand, right? How can you DO THIS TO ME? HOW CAN YOU FUCK HIM AND THEN PUSH ME AWAY LIKE... like... trash?"

I lose my steam at that, because no matter how angry I am, even I know that I'm being a childish brat.

Angel's look darkens even further. "That's not fair, Buffy. I'm not pushing you away because I don't want you. You can't imagine how it feels to want you as badly as I do, and not even be able to touch you... Look what we  
almost did. That's an indication of how little control I have when I'm around you. How can you accuse me of..."

I cover my ears. Mature, huh? "STOP! STOP IT! I DON'T WANT TO HEAR ANYMORE!"

He takes my hands away and stares hard into my face. "There is a world of difference between what I feel for Spike and what I feel for you! Two completely different kinds of love. This is why I LEFT, Buffy! If you and I  
finished what we just started, you'd probably be DEAD BY NOW! That doesn't happen with Spike!"

I shove him off of me, and the sight of him falling back on his rear... the way he flinches in pain, washes all my anger away.

"I don't... why... why would you?" I whisper.

Angel's still angry, and in pain now, too, because of me. And right at this moment, I can't imagine any way that I could be more miserable or ashamed.

"At least he's not my mortal enemy," he spits.

I gape at him, and something dawns on me for the first time.

"You're jealous," I observe.

He doesn't look me in the eye. "Of course I am. Damn it... this isn't what I wanted you to have. Is this the normal life you always dreamed of? Sleeping with soulless demons? And SPIKE, of all the choices? Really! It just..." he sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "It just escapes me. Why would you get into a relationship with him?"

"What gives you the right to decide what's best for me? What I should have? You always do this! You LEFT ME. Who the Hell do you think you are to keep making decisions about my life for me? Who or WHAT I sleep with isn't your concern anymore, remember? And where do you get off being such a hypocrite? You had sex with him while I was out SHOPPING!"

Now that was just dumb. I think my argument is quickly losing what little steam it might have had.

"And besides... what happened between Spike and I wasn't... a relationship, exactly..."

"No... she practically raped me right in the middle of Sunny Rest."

Angel and I look up at Spike's approach, wearing what I bet are close to matching expressions of rage. He grabs his Marlboros from the table near the door, lights one up, and stands there, gawking at us. "Crazy bint chased me down, ripped all my clothes off, and jumped me right there in front of all the dead folks." He leans back against the doorjamb with a self-satisfied grin. "Was fucking great, too. I'm starting to get why you're so dotty for her."

Son of a BITCH! I'm going to rip his god damned bad bleach job head off! Like he didn't goad me into it, and then sob like a baby for Angel through the whole thing! And now he's rubbing it in his FACE? Hell, I won't have to kill him. Angel probably will!

I glance at my beloved, sitting still as a stone, his face completely expressionless as he stares at his Childe.

"She sobbed like a little wimp for your noncey ass through the whole thing, too," Spike adds.

My head whips around of it's own accord, and I can almost hear my jaw hitting the floor.

"Huh," Angel says, like Spike just told him the corn crop yield was down this year, and then he turns and looks at me. "You really attacked him?"

"What? I... NO! It wasn't... I just... I didn't..."

Somebody's going to die for this scene. Right now, I'm kind of wishing it was me.

"And then we did it again on your kitchen table the other night."

Oh...Jesus. Maybe I will have to kill him, after all.

"Now, that's just rude," Angel chides us both.

"She was upset. It was my duty as the Childe of her Mate to comfort her," Spike flashes me a smirk, "Right, Pet?"

He's just being an asshole, at this point. Wait... what am I saying? He's ALWAYS AN ASSHOLE!

" *I* was upset? *I* WAS UPSET???" I screech, "*I* wasn't the one sitting there, getting drunk and crying in the dark!"

"Maybe. Ya still did me, though," he points out.

"I don't like this at all," Angel mumbles, lying back on the pillows, "It's not right."

"Not right? Too bad, poufter! You snooze, you lose, them's the rules!" Spike tells him. "She's up for grabs, mate."

I can feel Angel tense beside me. Wouldn't it be fitting if this whole nightmare ended with the two of them killing each other over me, and me dying of embarrassment and shame over it.

"She's *my* Mate, boy! You'd do well to remember your place!" Angel growls.

I really can't believe this is happening. I'm right back to stunned speechlessness again. What, are they going to duel now?

"Oh, BULLOCKS! Mate my white ass! What the Hell kind of Mate are you? Can't even shag her without going evil!"

Angel sits up, his voice edged with violence as he says, "I sure as HELL DON'T WANT HER SLEEPING WITH *YOU*!"

"Well, that's not your CHOICE, IS IT?"

I jump to my feet again. "What am I, you guys' fuck toy, now? Where do EITHER of you get off talking about me like I'm not sitting RIGHT HERE??? WHO THE FUCK DO EITHER OF YOU THINK YOU ARE? I fuck WHO I WANT, WHEN I WANT, AND FOR WHATEVER REASON I WANT!"

Spike takes a step toward me. Oh, yeah. Come closer, blondie. I'd love to get a piece of your ass right now.

"I want you to have something GOOD, Buffy! Something beautiful! Not his twisted idea of love!" Angel shouts.

"HEY! You hold on right there, you sanctimonious bastard! I love her just fine!"

I gape at him. "What did you just say?"

Both of them ignore me.

"What the Hell do you know about love, Spike? Huh? You don't have a SOUL! And last I heard, you were still a mass murderer!"

"Fuck you, Peaches! You know as well as I do a soul's got nothin' to DO with love! At least I STAYED with my Mate when things got rough!"

"Dru? You're comparing Buffy to DRUSILLA? That's just SICK!"

"YOU WATCH YOUR MOUTH! SIRE OR NO, I'LL DUST YOU IF YOU SAY ANYTHING AGAINST HER!"

"You didn't LOVE Drusilla, Spike! You were OBSESSED with her! Believe me --I know the difference!"

"BULLSHIT! We did just FINE taking care of each other after you ABANDONED US!"

O...kay. I think this just turned into something that doesn't have much to do with me at all. In fact, they don't even notice as I wander into the dark kitchenette, plunk down at the table, and start on the pizza.

"ABANDONED YOU? I got my SOUL BACK, SPIKE! My SIRE nearly staked me! What would YOU have done, if you knew, huh? What the Hell was I supposed to do?"

"I woulda TRIED, at least! We thought you CARED ABOUT US! It was YOUR BLOODY *JOB* TO LOOK AFTER US, YOU SON OF A WHORE! YOU DON'T JUST *LEAVE* YOUR *FAMILY* WITHOUT A FUCKING *WORD*!"

I pick a piece of pepperoni off a slice and nibble it absently, and try to pretend the Undead Jerry Springer Show isn't unfolding in the next room.

What is going on, here? What's happening to us? Have we ALL gone crazy? All this anger... all this love, and lust... all the things we've been keeping inside for... well, for a hundred years, at least, in Spike's case. Oh, God... When did this start? How? Was it when I slept with Spike? Or when Darla started torturing Angel? Was it before that? Is this where we've been headed all along? This twisted cosmic therapy is like having our guts ripped out and laid on the rug for everybody to gawk at...

"I DID TRY! I TRIED FOR *TWO YEARS* TO GET BACK TO YOU! AND WHEN I FOUND YOU, YOU WERE TOO BUSY HUNTING *SLAYERS* AND PANTING AFTER DRU TO NOTICE ANYTHING WAS AMISS!"

"Pant... PANTING! You... We had a very deep and abiding affection for one another, you fucking twit! We were all each other HAD after you just VANISHED! Do you know what that was LIKE? DO YOU? YOUR FUCKING PSYCHO-BITCH SIRE WANTED *ME* TO TAKE YOUR PLACE! AND DRU JUST CRIED ALL DAY AND ALL NIGHT FOR FUCKING *MONTHS*! Why... why didn't you... come to me? I would've helped you."

What is the point of all this? Why are we bothering to dredge up this pain? I thought we were here to help Angel, not punish him...

"What was I supposed to say? 'Sorry, Childe, but I can't be that vicious, monster you loved so well anymore, because every time I look at you or Drusilla, all I can see is all the things I've done to you... how I tortured  
you, used you... murdered you both...and it's like walking around with a stake in my heart'? What would you have done, Will? What would you have said? How could you have helped me?"

"I don't... I don't know!"

Neither of them are shouting anymore. Angel's voice has gone soft... wounded, and shot through with agony. Spike mumbles, then falls silent.

You know... now that I think about it... maybe this moment is exactly why Spike and I came. Maybe these ghosts need to be chased out for any of us to go on.

"I know you don't understand why I left, Spike," Angel continues, "There was nothing else I could have done. I couldn't be close to you... live with you and lie with you... pretend to hunt with you every night, knowing... things  
could never be what they once were. None of it. Not me... not you and I... not our family. I had no choice but to leave."

"I would have done anything for you! ANYTHING!" Spike sobs. The two of them are just out of my line of vision, but I can see them perfectly, in every painful detail, in my mind's eye. Feel all of our suffering pounding in the  
dense, over-heated air. "We could've found a way to stay together. You were all I ever had, Angelus! Ever! In life or unlife! Everything I knew about, everything I learned, from being YOURS!"

All their words rip through me, and suddenly, it's like that night all those years ago, when Angel was soulless, and I was dying of guilt over it... When we were possessed by James and Grace, and every word the ghosts  
voiced through our lips could have just as easily been from mine and Angel's hearts. Only now, Spike is speaking my lines.

He breaks down, and I hear the bed creak as Angel gets up. "You didn't learn anything from me but how to hurt. How to inflict pain and misery. How to destroy. What I gave you wasn't love, Will."

"It WAS!" He protests, "It was the only love I ever knew..."

His sobs are muffled as he falls apart. I stand up and walk out into the bedroom, and stare at them.

Should I leave? Am I part of this? Should I touch them?

Angel's eyes are closed, his voice barely a whisper. "It hurt to be around you when I got my soul back. Angelus never saw you as more than a thing. Another one of his possessions, like his suits or his paintings. But when I  
had my soul... when I saw you through those new eyes... saw what you truly were, and what I had turned you into... It hurt. It killed me inside to want to hold you... make love to you, and have you get down on your knees like a dog, waiting for me to beat you. All of it hurt too much... Drusilla's madness... Darla's cruelty... I couldn't stay. I couldn't do it."

And here I am, frozen again. Angel finally opens his eyes, and his teary gaze falls on me. He smiles sadly and opens his arms. I don't care why. I step into that circle of love and pain, and lean into his chest, kissing Spike's damp cheek as he hitches and cries. Angel closes his arms around us both, and holds us tight.

Willow talks a lot about sacred circles... spaces apart from normal time... a place that is no place, and everyplace... where magick happens.

We three broken beings all hold one another, and I think for the first time, I understand what she was talking about.

"I love you both," Angel whispers, pulling us closer. "I'm sorry I hurt you. I owe you so much."

Then he breaks down, too, and sobs into our hair.

It's still the strangest thing that's ever happened to me. But now, I think... maybe it's one of the most beautiful, too.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spike throws a hissy fit, curses a lot, and has a sandwich.

I FUCKING HATE THIS!

I remember once, this street hack voodoo bitch down in New Orleans put a hex on me, and for a friggin' week, all I could do when I opened my mouth was bleat like a fucking sheep. Took Dru less than 24 hours to find a reversal spell, but SIX bloody DAYS to get her brain together enough to cast the soddin' thing... and I couldn't do it because all I could say was "Baaaaa". (and let me tell you, that doesn't translate into Latin.) Worse than that, half the time I didn't have control of my mouth at all, so I couldn't just shut up and wait for the spell to work. I ran around the damn lair bleating and snorting like a bloody idiot whether I wanted to or not.

The gut-wrenching fucking angst melodrama unfolding in this goddamn hotel room is just like that! I mean, HELL! All I wanted was to give my wounded Sire a little jolly, you know? He was feeling poorly, and a good blowjob always perked him up in the past...

And okay. Yeah, I read him some poetry! So what? Doesn't mean a goddamn thing.

Doesn't mean I wanted to sit there and bloody cry like a little pud smacker, working through my "issues"! It's like their fucking ironic ennui is a damn virus, and banging them has passed it on to me. I'd rather be dust than feel the Slayer's sweet little lips on me, my Sire holding us and weeping into our hair like we're on one of those "Oprah reunites a Family" specials!

What is happening to me? Why the bloody fuck am I here?

(you love them)

I DO NOT FUCKING LOVE THEM! I'm a FUCKING DEMON! A GODDAMN VILLAIN, FOR CHRISSAKE! I've done stuff to humans that'd give LOVECRAFT nightmares! I've

played Cat's Cradle with Dru using ENTRAILS! I've taken a bloody catclaw to PRIESTS! I've done more than my fair share of rape, torture and murder, you know? I'M FRIGGING EVIL! Why does everybody forget that? It wasn't until I laid eyes on this fucking BITCH I'm holding in my arms that I started acting like a bloody POUFTER!

Aw... fuck. I'd yell if I could stop bloody crying.

This is so wrong. It's against all the laws of nature and bloody man, what's happening, here. The way I feel right now. Angelus was screaming at me that I didn't have a soul, and he was spot on. So why?

(remember your little theory about the chip, nancyboy?)

Oh, BUGGER THAT! Sod the effin' chip, and sod this souled homo and sod the goddamn bloody Vampire Slayer who's supposed to be my natural fucking enemy!

(oh, come on, Willie... don't tell me Angel didn't taste good in your mouth. it was heaven to have his fangs in your throat again, and you know it. And everytime you touch the friggin' Slayer, you turn into a blubbering mess.)

I was confused, is all, what with him almost dying... finding him in the shape he was in, and her all crying and whatnot. He is still my Sire, even if He's a foppish faggot. He's blood, you know? That's all. And she's needy...

Damn it. I'm fucked.

It's too much, all this damn shouting and pain and affection... being able to feel every damn thing that they feel like it's running through my veins right along with my own growing lunacy.

(you love them, you bloody pansy.)

I don't. I don't love them.

I feel like I'm standing outside my body, and looking in at this clutch of flesh, blood and agony. I want to be drunk. I want to be out hunting. I want Dru to be singing about two-headed kittens and how the friggin' stars are singing. I want Angelus to call me 'boy', and bang me till I bleed. I want the taste of hot blood in my mouth. I want to hold Death in my arms.

(I want to be a real demon again.)

I don't want this. I don't want to be a neutered, muzzled animal being held tenderly by some fucking knight in shining armor. I don't want the Slayer's warm hands on my face, her little comforting kisses like candy on my lips.

It's a nightmare. A fucking demon's worst nightmare.

(you keep telling yourself that.)

Angel pulls away first, one of his big hands on my cheek, the other on Buffy's. She looks up at him like he hung the damn moon just for her, and he gazes down at her like she's the most precious jewel in the fucking universe.

(you're jealous. you want him to look at you like that.)

Like Hell, I do! I want him to go back to what he was a week ago -- a fucking painful memory shoved in the back of my brain right alongside that chip!

His eyes tick to mine. His thumb strokes a lazy, familiar path across my cheek, down my jaw, he swallows hard and...

Fuck me. There's something in those eyes, something... hot and sharp and...

Son of a bitch. I know what he's thinking. Jesus H. Christ on a popsicle

stick!

I look at the Slayer. She's practically a little kid, for Chrissake! What the Hell is she gonna think about the spot of kink her flawless bloody Prince Charming is suggesting?

She steps back out of our little huddle, and pulls off her nightshirt, letting it fall to the floor, and now she's standing there, that bloody amazing body bare in the soft light of the fire.

Gotta say... I wasn't expecting that.

My eyes jerk back to Angel. So... what do we do now, Master? You're the director of this little porno flick...

("Dear Penthouse: My vampire Childe and I had a tasty threesome with the Chosen One the other night. There was a whole lot of staking, but no dust.")

And doesn't the bastard look surprised!

I really can't believe this is happening to me.

Truth be told, I'm instantly as hard as a rock, because... let's face it, rhyme or reason aside, this is probably going to rank right up there on William the Bloody's Top Ten List of Fucking Fantastic Nights.

So me and the pouf both stand there, gawking at the barenaked Slayer, when she smiles softly and reaches out a hand to each of us, and says,

"I think maybe we can get around the Curse."

.....

That was my mind short-circuiting.

I look at Angel again, but he's busy staring at the Slayer's tits like they're the bloody Pearly Gates, and she's fucking St. Goddamn Peter, standin' there, going, "Hey, Angel. How are ya? Come on in and grab yourself a harp."

What do I do? I think I respond to this little turn of events with a squeak.

She doesn't say anything else. Just walks toward me, and fucking takes my face between those hands and starts monging on my mouth.

Angel stands there like the big, dumb lummox he is, and watches his freaking soulmate suck my face off. He's jealous, sure. I can smell the "Don't touch my mate, whelp," pheromones flying off him like crazy. But he's a kinky bastard, this I know from personal experience. And it sure as fuck isn't the first time he's watched me do his mate. In fact, Angelus used to get all kinds of ha-ha's, sitting in a chair, fully dressed, next to his bed while I fucked Darla six ways from Saturday.

'Course, he usually pounded me senseless, afterward...

But I'll wager he's thinking that the three of us together is going to be some sort of cosmic rubber for his bloody Curse. If he's doing both of us, he's not going to be perfectly happy, is he? Hell, "Penthouse" got nothing on us.

Buffy dislodges herself from my mouth, and turns to look at Angel. She doesn't know what the fuck she's doing, obviously. But... hey... this is their game, not mine, so I'm not lifting a damn finger to help, even if my package is hard enough to shatter if you hit it just right.

I've participated in my fair share of threesomes before, of course. In fact,

Angelus was usually one of the three. I know that somebody often gets left out for a time. But that gets remedied right quick when things start to heat up, fear not. I'm not at all envious to watch the little nympho walk over to my Sire, and run her hands over his bare chest like he's a bolt of fine silk, and she's looking to make herself a party dress. He closes his eyes and shivers.

Okay, so I'm a little jealous. But I pass the moment by gettin' outta my drawers before he can even finish moaning, "God, Buffy..."

Aye-fucking-YAH! Let's skip all the mushy bullocks and get to the shagging!

Oh, but wait. I forget this is Romeo and fucking Juliet, we've got here, and they've been apart for a while--all that forbidden romance rot-- so there's quite a bit of sighing and slow caresses, and moaning about love and whatnot.

So while I'm standing here watching, polishing my knob -- because yeah, it's damn hot, watching the Slayer strip off Angel's pants and start working her mouth over every inch of that incredible body of his -- let me tell you my theory about Perfect Happiness.

I didn't stop them from scrogging before because I was afraid of that nutter fucking remnant of my Sire coming back if they got nasty. Honestly? I think that rotten fucker's gone forever, and good riddance, because that particular incarnation of Angelus just wasn't right in the head.

Nope. I stopped Buffy and Angel from doin' the deed for no other reason than I was thinking it would be good for a laugh. Believe me, if I'd thought it was going to lead to an hour of friggin' intensive therapy, I would've let 'em go at it, watched 'em go, then let myself be amused by all their guilt and worry, after.

My Sire's not going to lose His soul if he bangs the Slayer, anymore than he did when he got off with me. Here's why: it's not sex that cuts Peaches' ties to his eternally tortured essence -- not even sex with his beloved Buffy. The way I read it is this (and I mean *read* it, because I stole all the Watcher's notes and did just that. Do you really think I woulda blown him if I didn't know for certain that shootin' his wad would bring back that fucking psycho? Uh... no.): The fairy's meant to suffer -- that is, all his angst and woe and torment is supposed to weigh on his mind night and day, forever. He's supposed to be wracked with remorse, remember all the damage he's done and all that, 24/7, 'til Doomsday.

Now, way back when, when him and Goldilocks first got funky, it was like he wasn't what he was anymore. First time he'd gotten any in a hundred years, and all this unconditional love, acceptance, and desire from this innocent little thing... Being with her, inside her; having her, his mortal enemy, show him enough love and trust to give herself to him... Poor bastard had hope for the first time in a damn painful century. He was probably making love to her, thinking about how freakin' blessed and lucky he was, planning a future together, and when he let go?

Oops. Forgot about the soul. Forgot about the guilt, the suffering, the anguish, and all his contrition for the blood and murder and mayhem he spent 150 years perpetuating.

It wasn't the coming that did the poor fucker in. It wasn't even coming in his precious bloody soulmate -- it was the forgetting. And I'd bet you a million fucking dollars, if he snogs her right now (and I'm thinking he will), he's only gonna be half in the sex, because the only thing he'll be thinking about is that Curse, his soul, and all the bloody amends he still has to make.

But anyway... back to the matter at hand. So to speak.

The Slayer's down on her knees, now, and my Sire's gettin' the knob polishing of his... okay, the last couple of hours or so, because I give damn good head. His knees are shaking like he's gonna fall over, his hands tangled in her hair, and he moans deep in his throat.

Did I ever mention Angel's a bloody hot lay? Makes these wicked noises... loves to talk. Murmuring and groaning and sighing and all that, like he's doing now.

Okay. Enough waiting. My turn.

I approach them, and run a hand down the wanker's enormous barrel chest. God, he's just... beautiful. I can't help myself. My brain knows I should hate him, hate her, hate this... but the rest of me doesn't give a tosser's afternoon with a bottle of Vaseline what my brain knows. I step close to his side, and one of his trembling hands comes out of her hair and digs into mine, pulling me right to his mouth.

Oh, yeah... His tongue flicks along the length of mine, then traces my lips, and then he sucks my tongue between his teeth, and he starts doing a mini-performance of what Buffy's busy doing to him down below. God, he tastes so good... like the blood he drank a while ago, and even though it wasn't fresh, that taste...

Fuck. That tangy taste... his taste... the taste of blood and tears, pain and Slayer and me, and my whole damn existence is tied up in this mouth. I sink into the kiss, and in a moment, a small, warm hand reaches up and wraps around my...

HOLY FUCKING CHRIST! Now her mouth joins in, and it's so different, this time. She's with *me*. She's sucking *my* dick. All I can do is watch, and Angel watches too, which is too friggin' much, for me. He's watching his precious bloody Mate blow his Most Favoured Childe while he strokes her hair, urging her on.

You better believe this is a kink even I never thought of. At least, not when I was awake.

I'll tell you what, if I ever see that fucking moron Army hick again, I'm gonna buy him a damn fruitbasket for teaching Buffy how to give such amazing head. Assuming, of course, that my honorable Sire never quite got to that particular comfort zone, considering he turned into a nutter bastard after their first scrog.

She really is fucking astounding, and my brain freezes completely at the sensation of her mouth around me. All there is in the universe is that heat enveloping my rod, and his cool hands caressing my chest, pinching my nipples.

Lost, is what I am. Fucking bamboozled by a passion you better bloody believe I haven't felt in a good, long time. If ever.

And it isn't more than one or two of her heartbeats after that before we've all tumbled onto the bed, a tangle of arms and legs, flesh and hands and mouths, tongues and teeth, hard cocks and hot pussy.

Human sex. This is human sex, all the way. No blood besides what's in us, no fangs, no purring or growling, just moans and sighs and panting and yelps in the darkness. Been a long time since I've had human sex.

I don't know who I'm touching, after a bit. And I don't care. Cool, hot, soft, hard, it's all the same... it's all fucking good. We're one breath, one fucking heartbeat, one Blood. And a whole lot of genitalia.

All irony aside, this is the best thing that's ever happened to me.

Someone pushes me on my back, and I feel Slayer legs straddle me... Sire cock rubbing hard against my thigh. I peer up into her eyes... beautiful, smoky, lusty orbs, dark with all this animal rutting. I watch her sink down over me, take me into her living heat, then lean down and capture my lips as she rides me with these incredible feminine noises. She arches straight up again, throws her head back, and Angel reaches between us, sinking his fingers into her Gasp and Grunt. Buffy cries out, slams down hard on me, and I can feel his finger dancing on her clit, her muscles squeezing me so

hard I think I'm going to pop, and his lips are back on mine. Oh, FUCK! I can feel his hardness jerking against my leg, straining for the same release I can feel rushing toward me... God, Sire, I love you... Slayer...oh...Jesus!

She starts... wailing. Screaming, I swear, and me and Angel both open our eyes to watch her go... her eyes roll back in her head, her nails rip into his arm, my stomach, and he's moaning, "Yes... Buffy..." and her goddamn Slayer muscles are ripping me apart like some erotic fucking rack made out of flesh.

But she stops before I go over, which is okay by me, because yeah, I love her, and she feels like a bloody miracle, but...

I don't want to come in her. Not this time. And I don't want my seed spurting all over empty air and skin, either. I want inside. Inside him.

Buffy climbs off me and falls between us, panting. His lips close over hers, and he kisses her gently, so sweetly... I suck on her earlobes, her throat. We take to licking her from head to foot, the two of us, one on each side, and she whimpers like a little puppy, arching her hips in the air as me and my Sire dry hump them, whispering and murmuring to her all the while.

Her juices smell like... power. Like pure, animal sex. Like me and her, and him too, somehow, and I follow my instincts down the lines of her hot little body down to that sopping nest of curls between her legs, and plunge my face inside.

Sometimes, this is just as good as blood... especially from a live, writhing, throbbing Slayer. She's pouring all over my face, and I eat her slowly, just loving the shiver in my cells to taste the might in every drop. I make my way up to her clit, and take it, hot and quivering between my lips, sucking for all I'm worth. Her cries are muffled by my Sire's mouth as I glance up, watch their faces fucking, and drive my fingers into her to the same rhythm as his tongue between her lips. He pinches her nipples softly, then traces the curve of her breasts, over her ribs, her belly. Her free hand reaches down, urging his mouth back to her breasts once more.

We both suckle at her like pups at their bitch, and she starts making these noises... part my name, part his, and a good dose of murmuring, cooing nonsense. I slide my fingers in and out of her, and her honey increases... changes viscosity and aroma, and she starts shouting again. Angel encourages her with his deep, soft voice... I follow the increasing pace of her heartbeat with my tongue until her body goes completely rigid beneath me, and her breath hitches to a stop. She's completely bloody silent as she

comes, her heart pounding like it's gonna explode, and she arches her hips off the bed, carrying me with her, and Angel watches, moaning like there's no tomorrow. And holy shit, she tastes so goddamn good.

When she comes crashing back to planet Earth again, she pulls me up by the hair beside her, and takes to kissing and licking her pleasure off my lips. Then Angel leans over her and kisses me, tongue deep, doing the same.

He pulls away, and I moan... "Sire..."

That does something to him. I don't know what, exactly, and I really don't give a fuck, because he practically dives over the Slayer, his carcass full weight right on top of me, and starts monging on my face like it's going out of style, and our legs and arms are all tangled, our equally aching and throbbing cocks rubbing against one another.

Now... I've read the Kama Sutra. I know that some pretty amazing bloody things can be done with a humanoid body -- especially a vampire one -- during sex. But I could sit and think about this night for a million years, and I could never begin to explain the logistics of this next bit. But I tell you... it happened anyway.

A quick description? Angel sandwich. And yeah, it's as damn yummy as it sounds.

The Slayer rolls away from him, on her side, and throws one leg up over his hip. He drives up and underneath her, fittin' like they're two pieces of a damn puzzle, and he drapes his hand over her waist, giving her a good finger wriggle as he starts thrusting in and out of her. Me... I steal a good goopy fistful of her plentiful wetness to lube myself up, and slide right into his... oh... fucking Son of Satan... my Sire's tight fucking hole...

Heaven is, by God, this particular Inside-Out Vampire With a Soul Oreo.

I ease into him and practically come on the spot, he's so tight. It takes a good bit of arranging and rearranging and grunting and moaning and occasional elbows in the face to get a rhythm going, but...

It's bloody worth it. End result being me sliding into him, and him sliding into her, and all of us groaning and crying out and making all kinds of fucked up noises.

But CHRIST... I've never felt anything so damn good in my life.

Blood is the center of reality for vampires, and more so, even, during sex. There's something... inherently animalistic when two vampires go at it... when all illusion of humanity is totally shattered, and lust becomes all about pure demonic nature. So, as I'm rocketing into oblivion buried to the hilt inside Angel's incredible ass, I do what comes naturally... I bury my fangs into him like he's made of friggin' butter, and he roars as that precious, forbidden Sireblood floods into my mouth. I ram him harder, which makes him ram her harder, and she's yelping like crazy. He snarls... demon noise, and

I open my eyes, because I want a damn visual memory of this moment that I'm nursing from his vein as I fuck him.

What I see is mind-blowing... Buffy bows back against him, and turns her head just so... offering her damn throat to the rabid wolf... and Angel half-moans, half growls, and it's like slow motion as he lowers his true face to her offering... demonic lips delicately kissing her pulsing artery... she sighs his name, and then... BAM! He tears into her. She screams at the top of her lungs, slamming herself onto him. He starts whimpering as he drinks, and that's the end of it for all of us. Blood, fangs, cocks and snatch,

pulsing, squeezing, thrusting, ramming and coming for fucking ever.

I swear, I passed right out. Never happened to me before when there wasn't a branding iron involved. That's what you call your earth-shattering shag.

*******

The smell of the sunrise wakes me, which never happens. Jesus. Old Will shagged ragged, if you can imagine. My whole body has that sort of weightless, blubbery-tired aching feeling like all my muscles melted, and I'll tell you right now, I haven't been so damn relaxed in a good, long time.

I open my eyes to find my Sire standing there in his froofy silk boxers and matching robe, toweling his hair dry, gazing down at me and the sleeping Slayer like we're hanging on the walls of the damn Louvre.

He sees I'm awake, and gives me a mushy smile.

"'Morning," he says softly.

"Yeah, no bloody kidding," I grumble. I'm not much for the early rising, and I can't think of a good reason why I should be now, but that Angel's standing there boring holes in my skull with his eyes.

"There's coffee, if you want," he informs me, and wanders over to the fireplace.

I just lay there and watch him move. He adds another couple of logs to the fire and gazes absently at the growing flames, looking like his old broody self, and I start to wonder if maybe I dreamed that whole smut scene last night.

Don't know. Don't really care.

I get up and head into the kitchenette to pour myself a hot java. The old-fashioned silver percolator is full of that noncey LA crap Angel likes so much that tastes like chocolate and nuts or some bullocks. Me, I just throw any old brown beans in with half the water you're supposed to use, and hope it's got a shitload of caffeine.

Another little reminder of how different we are, me and my Sire.

But... really, that's only surface stuff. I glance over at him, and his gaze is locked back on the Slayer again, so I check her out to see what's so damn interesting.

I've said it before... she really is a beautiful woman. So tiny, all curled up like an angel, tangled in the blankets with a little smile on her face. She's got this... aura, I guess, to her. I don't know if humans can see it--or Hell, if I ever even noticed it before now. It's like those pictures of saints you always see, where they're all surrounded by this pale golden haze. She's got that. It shimmers around her like heat on summer pavement.

I wonder if that's the draw of her, for Angel and me. Like that visible power makes her a bloody beacon for darkness. I don't know. But it makes me sorta warm inside to look at her, and know that I had some part in making her look so content.

Angel's got the same look on his face, and I'm reminded again that we're not so different, after all.

I wander over and sit in the chair beside him. He's turned back to the fire, now, and that pensive, big brow-scrunching look is back. See? I told you --no Perfect Happiness for this poor bastard.

"Your coffee sucks," I tell him.

A bit of a smile crawls across that fucking handsome-ass face, and when he turns it on me, it's like standing in the sunshine for the first time in a hundred years. And I was never one much for the sun when I was alive.

"Thanks," he says, "Considering you like your coffee closer to the consistency of mud, I'll take that as a compliment."

I just snort at him and light up a smoke. His caveman brow furrows a little further.

"I really wish you wouldn't smoke in here, Spike."

I shoot him a look. One thing for sure hasn't changed -- Angelus never liked people smoking in his bedroom without his leave, either. Of course, he wouldn't have expressed it like Angel just did. I'd be laying on the floor on the other side of the room, wiping blood off my chin, while he was putting the smoke out on whatever the closest bit of my bare skin was.

"I had to drag your enormous ass ten miles through the filthiest bloody sewers on the planet, you covered with shit and stinkin' like vampire rot. I think I'm entitled to a smoke with my coffee."

It's a low blow, but... hey. I take my power where I can get it. With him, it's guilt.

Doesn't he bloody laugh. "Touché," he responds, and turns his attention back to the Slayer.

The expression on his face now is like something straight out of a gothic romance. This mixture of love and longing, desire and pain, and I can practically hear his dead heart healing and breaking all at once to look at her.

No doubt he's thinking some about last night, just like me.

"I find it sorta hard to believe you're really okay with this," I tell him, nodding toward her.

"I am, and I'm not," he replies.

I cock an eyebrow at him.

"I can't say I'm completely comfortable sharing either of you," he explains, turning to look at me again, "And I'm still not sure how I feel about you and Buffy being... involved. But... like she said, it's her choice. I don't have to like it. And I..." he swallows hard. "I trust you with her. At least I can be certain she's looked after, even if I can't be with her."

I can't bloody well believe what I'm hearing. I lean toward him, resting my elbows on my knees.

"Hold on a minute, there. You mean to tell me you're not gonna... I mean... the two of you aren't..."

Look at me, flabbergasted again. He can bang her now, right? Wasn't that their major malfunction? I mean... his soul looks to be fairly intact to me, even after last night's little adventure. So... what's with the martyr bit? Wait. What am I saying? This is Angel, we're talking about. Bet he's got a horsehair shirt in that closet somewhere.

He shakes his head. "Just because we can sleep together doesn't change the fundamental circumstances of our lives, Will. We have responsibilities... to the world, to ourselves. Now isn't the time for us to be together. I still can't give her the things she deserves... home, happiness and family. I can't fully give myself to her, knowing the curse is still there, and there's still so much I need to do to..."

He trails off, but I know what he's thinking. "be worthy of her." Schmuck.

"I can't believe you're still stuck on all that normal life bullshit. Please. Do you know what happened with Agent Blandboy? Her little side-trip into normalcy that you're so damn convinced she needs?"

Angel flinches and closes his eyes. I'm thinking Farmbred Fuckwad isn't exactly his favorite topic of conversation. And I bet he forgot all about the meathead through his little tribulation, and all the way through the shagging last night.

"Hell, mate," I go on, "Boy couldn't handle the pressure of being the Slayer's damn consort. Ended up going out and playing snackbar for a bunch of demon skanks, for Chrissake. Kept saying he wanted to understand the "hold" you had over Buffy. Stupid bastard. And didn't he bugger right off when she wouldn't tell him that she loved him?"

His eyes flash-- shock, anger... turmoil.

"He what?" he asks softly, "I thought... she told me..."

I shrug. "Dunno what she told you, but... from where I was standing it looked to me like the fine lad was pastime rebound loser."

He blinks. "Riley left her?"

"Yup. She's starting to think it's a pattern."

Angel frowns so hard, I think his face might crack. Can he see out from under that brow? "No... she can't think that," he whispers. "How could she?"

I chuck him in the shoulder. "Hey, Sire. Least you know that you still stand front and center in the Slayer's esteem, eh?"

He shakes his head. "She shouldn't have let him go. He seemed like... a good guy. Solid. Dependable. Loyal."

"She should get a dog, then, if that's what she wants. She's the Slayer, ya moron. She doesn't get the white picket fence and the 2.3 kids and the minivan or whatever. She gets swordplay and hellspawn, mate. Sacred duty and all that."

He's not even listening to me anymore. He's staring at her, and his damn big mouth is just running of its own accord. "She's the reason for all of it, Will. The only reason I even have this life. My purpose. I'd forgotten how... her light used to inspire me. Her power... That...belligerent innocence... Seeing her again, touching her, brings it all back.

I remember now why I decided to become something in the first place. Why I'm doing all of this. She's the reason. I wanted so much more for her than what I had to offer... I owe her that much, at least."

Oh, bloody sobbing Christ. I mean, I can understand what he's saying. Can relate, even. At least, about her pull... Hell, how many times did I escape from Sunnydale, off searching for a new and better unlife, only to be sucked right back to the Hellmouth again? I'm thinking it was for a lot more than the nice scenery.

But really. Why does Angel always insist on seeing the bottle half-empty? Shouldn't he be jumpin' for bloody joy that Beef Bulkhead is history, and it turns out he can shag the bint after all? But, no... he's gotta focus on the pain. Well... you know my theory about keeping his soul firmly in place. All about the brooding, that.

"What am I, chopped monkey meat?" I gripe at him.

Time for a subject change. He doesn't need to know the way I feel about Buffy. And him worrying himself back into the loonybin in his skull isn't going to help anybody, either.

He lays that half-smile on me again. "Hardly. You're part of it too, Will. Having you close is like..." He sighs and shakes his head. "I left you both because I thought it was the best thing for everyone. You didn't exactly dissuade me from that when we met again, either."

Is be back on that kick again? Christ. I roll my eyes at him. For somebody who used to fancy himself such a big brained dandy, he sure is a bleedin' idiot.

"What'd you expect me to do? I didn't know what the hell you were about. You left without a word a hundred years ago, and now you're suddenly back and palling around with the Slayer and her chums? Not exactly a happy sort of reunion, what with you trying to kill me and all. Was right pissed off."

He scowls. "I think the whole rape and torture incident made that fairly clear."

Oh, yeah. Forgot about that.

"Sorry," I grumble. And really, I sort of am, now.

Angel shrugs. "Water under the bridge, I guess." His gaze sweeps up to my face again. "You've changed a lot since then."

Ain't that just a "Guinness Book"-sized understatement. "Mm," I grunt.

That's all he's getting out of me on that topic.

"I'm glad you're here. And I'm glad you've been looking out for her. I've heard there've been... problems."

"Only if you call her arch enemy the Dark Slayer stealing her hide and scrogging her boyfriend, an indestructible half-demon Frankenstein almost skewering her, her mum having brain Cancer, and some Demi-God in a tight red mini-dress Buffy can't even make a dent in a problem, I guess. Yeah."

And I thought his frown couldn't get any deeper.

"Nothing she can't handle, mate," I lie. We're taking care of him right now. We can worry about the Hellmouth later.

He forces a smile, and nods. "She's a lot tougher than she looks, but a lot softer than she acts, Spike."

What a freaking poet. Bloody poufter. 'Course... he's right.

We sit there for a while, me sippin' my joe and smoking, him just looking thoughtfully into the fire. I think a bit on what he said about me changing. My whole damn existence has mutated into something completely different than it was a couple of years ago. I always thought demons didn't change, you know? We got turned, and pretty much stayed the same vampire until we were dust. But the more time I spend around humans, the more I see that our species really aren't that different, when it comes to growth. I really have changed. And so has my Sire... and not just because of his

soul, I don't think.

I have a lot more in my life, in some ways, than I did when it was him and me and Dru and that cuntbag Darla. And then, in some others, I have a lot less. Guess that's bound to change a bloke. I glance at him, and get that bizarre pang again, and something else rolls into my head.

"So you're not going to hook up with the Slayer. What next, then?" I think I mean it for more than just him. The whelp in me wants him to tell me what the Hell to do with myself, now. Now that I'm in love with a damn Slayer and a Dudley Doright-Demon, stuck drinking pig's blood from a jar for the rest of eternity.

But his expression just darkens, and his posture sags like somebody dropped one of those cartoon anvils on his head. He sighs.

Bugger's got looking depressed honed to a fine art.

"I have to stop them," he says. "I sincerely doubt Darla will be satisfied with a few lawyers."

Although I bet she found it awfully satisfying that he allowed it to happen, that batty bitch.

I realize something else... something that slams into my brain and my chest fit to knock me right out of my seat.

'Them,' he said. Isn't just Darla he's planning on 'stopping.'

"You... you're going to... kill them? *Both* of them?"

All emotion on his face and in his eyes rushes away, leaving him looking vacant, and... frankly, dead. I can't stop the shivers that run down my spine.

"There's no other choice," he justifies flatly, "I can't just let them roam free."

"WHY THE BLOODY HELL NOT?" I yelp at him.

He gives me a nasty "shut your gob" look, and nods toward Buffy.

"I DON'T GIVE A FUCK ABOUT THAT STUPID BITCH! I'M NOT LETTING YOU DUST DRU, YOU BASTARD!"

I've got very few sore points, really. Takes a lot to set me off, usually, 'less I've been drinking. One is this chip in my skull. Another is my manhood. A third could well be the wanker himself. And the last... Drusilla. Whether we're still together or not doesn't matter a damn bit. She was my mate for 99% of my unlife, and we were whelped together. That doesn't disappear just because she shagged a couple of really ugly demons, and I'm having a love affair with the Vampire Slayer.

She makes a little complaining noise, and stirs, but doesn't quite wake up. My Sire's face isn't empty anymore. In fact, he's got a look that I sometimes see in my nightmares -- right alongside whips and hot irons and such.

Angel grabs me hard by the arm and drags me out of the bedroom, holding me

fast as he shuts the door behind us.

"LET ME GO, YA FUCKER!" I shout.

Naturally, he ignores me, and hauls my ass down the big, faggy hotel staircase, across the lobby, through a steel door, and down another flight into the basement.

Can't help wondering if maybe he's got a rack stashed away down here.

We get to the bottom, and he flings me away.

"You shut your mouth, boy!" he hisses, "I don't want her involved in this!"

"THIS?! You're not talking euthanizing PUPPIES, Angelus! This is murdering your entire family! Not that you've ever had a problem with that before!"

Yeah, I'm being nasty. But like I said.... sore spots.

Angel stands ramrod straight, his spine like a damn steel bar. Jesus. He slouches so much all the time, I forget how bleedin' tall he is.

"It's not murder," he says seriously, sounding for all the world like Judge Friggin' Judy, "That word only applies to humans. This is justice."

"ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?" I take a step toward him -- yet another little

defiance that would've gotten me flogged bloody a hundred years ago. Angelus never took well to being challenged. I grab a broom standing against the stairwell, and snap it in half over my knee as I stalk him. "WHY THE FUCK DON'T YOU STAKE ME, THEN? I'M NOT HUMAN, EITHER! I DON'T HAVE A FUCKING SOUL!"

He flinches, and fuck me... takes a step back.

"What, you won't because I'm harmless? I'm not fucking HARMLESS! NOT WHERE

YOU'RE CONCERNED! AND I'M NOT LETTING YOU TOUCH A HAIR ON HER HEAD! IT'S YOUR DAMN FAULT SHE IS THE WAY SHE IS ANYHOW!"

Angel tenses even more, and stands there, scowling at me. I may not be the biggest brain on the planet, but you better believe I know how to push the dumb bastard's 'Stop' button.

"SO? COME ON! WHAT'RE YA WAITIN' FOR? FUCKING STAKE ME ALREADY!"

Guess what he does when I menace him again with that broken broom handle?

Nothing.

So I leave off my 'Ali' impression and start staring back, the broom handle still between us.

"I'm not going to stake you, Spike," he informs me.

"Why the Hell not? I've got nothing to live for, and it's the only way you're gettin' near Drusilla. I swear, I'll dust you first, Sire or no!"

Without any warning at all, he deflates again, like somebody stuck a big pin in him. Bugger loses fifty pounds and six inches just like that, as he exhales and sinks down onto the steps.

Oh, here we go. Bet he starts whining about staking his Sire, now.

"That's not something you want to do, believe me," he warns softly.

Told you.

"Yeah, well...I don't have a conscience, so..."

I'm not really gonna stake him, either. I've heard too many nasty horror stories about blokes who dusted their Makers... they go nuts... get torn apart by others in their bloodline. Hell, just look at Angel. He staked his and turned into Sir Freaking Lancelot.

But, all rules aside, I'm not going to let him touch Dru. If I gotta kill him and go totally over the edge, so be it.

I don't think for a second it'll come to that, really. He's talking a big game, but I've got serious doubts that he'd be able to bring himself to do it.

"I don't know if I can do it again, Will."

See?

I sit down beside him and light up a smoke. Angel doesn't even flinch, which tells you how messed up he is, right now.

He shakes his head in that sort of crazy way, like he's arguing with himself, and since I can't hear either side of it, it's pretty bloody freaky.

"It's my fault," he whines, "All of it. I made Drusilla. Worse, I made her mad. What choice does she have, but to follow Darla? Childe or no, Darla always has been, and always will be, Alpha."

I don't think females work in terms of domination, really. Only males give a toss who's got the bigger dick. But... this is his breakdown, so I'll just stay with it. Especially since he's talking himself out of staking my Mate.

"She was right there. So close. She accepted her fate. Redeemed. She... I promised I would stay with her, and then..."

I've got not a speck of a clue what he's babbling about, now. And I'm getting eaten with the curiosity. Her who? What was her fate? Why did he promise he would stay with whoever she is? This is better than "Passions".

I almost ask him, but... it looks like he's done. He covers his face with his hands and gets quiet again.

For about five seconds.

"I don't know what I'm doing anymore. I don't know why the Hell I'm here at all. Nothing makes sense. Nothing I do makes any difference."

Wait. Didn't he just finish telling me that the Slayer was the reason? That he had his bloody Destiny, and killing his Sire was part of it, somehow? Now he's just confusing me.

Though... I s'pose I can understand his gray matter being all scrambled. He did spend a couple of centuries in Hell. Or whatever passes for it, considering I don't much believe in such things. And I think if there was a Hell, I'd sort of want to be there, 'cause that's where all the interesting people are.

I think, like me old Sire's so aptly demonstrated -- and my life, too, I guess -- the only Hell that really exists is the one we make for ourselves, in our own minds.

Listen to me, like friggin' Lord Byron. I swear, hanging out with this ponzy's gonna ruin me, yet.

Not that I'm in such good shape as it is.

"I don't know either, Sire," I tell him, "Why are any of us around?"

And now with the Plato.

"I let them kill all of those people," he says, still talking into his hands. His voice is sort of hollow, empty like his eyes were a bit before. "All that blood is on my soul."

I don't even realize what I'm doing. I put my arm across his monstrous shoulders, give him a squeeze, and shrug. "They were lawyers. Evil lawyers, at that. Although, I guess that's sort of redundant, isn't it? Anyway...I figure you did the world a favor."

"It wasn't my place to decide their fate. And now, Darla and Dru... I can't let them kill anybody else. But I don't know how to stop them," he admits, leaning into me.

I don't have any damn answers for him. Hell, it's all I can do to get up and put on my pants every night, most times. Personally, I think he's taking it a bit too hard, and being mighty pompous, wanting to punish our girls for doing what comes naturally.

But I don't tell him that.

"If I don't stop them, who will?" he mutters.

The door at the top of the stairs opens, and the Slayer's scent fills the dank air, like a cloud of warm vanilla.

"Hey... do I even want to know why you're down there?" she asks, a smile in her voice. Then I guess she takes a good look at the position we're in... me comforting him and all, and the smile goes out the window. "Are you guys okay?"

I look up at her, all sleepy and rumpled, half teenager, half raging friggin' sex kitten, and I find myself wondering, for a second, how someone like her got mixed up with the likes of me and my Sire. A couple of mutant bloody demons.

I draw back and look at him. He's finally taken his hands away from his bugger-all gorgeous face.

Right. I remember, now.

"Sire's having an existential crisis," I tell her.

She looks at him, all worried. "Angel?"

He takes a deep breath, and turns. When he sets his gaze on her, it's like somebody lit a fire in his eyes.

"I'm okay," he lies.

Damn noble bastard. He's ripping himself apart about doing what's supposed to be her job. And I'd say he's still a bloody far sight from "okay."

"Well... can you do it in bed?" she yawns.

Me and Angel are wide-awake, of course, but... I guess I'm starting to figure out who's really the Master, here, because the both of us rise without a second thought, take the little hand she offers each of us, and let her to lead us back up to the warm bedroom.

We all sort of huddle together under the blankets, and I figure, as Angel's deep rumble and Buffy's little fairybell tinkle in response as they talk lull me back to sleep... there are worse places to be, right?


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angel contemplates Perfect Happiness, Utter Misery, and what happens next.

It's raining. I can hear sheets of cold winter water pouring on to the roof three floors above me, then running down the gutters with a sound like metallic thunder.

Fitting, isn't it? This particular morning, I have everything I should want... my health; my sanity, for the most part; the two creatures I love most in the universe on either side of me in my bed. We made love last night. All night, the three of us... a symphony of healing touch that carried us well into the morning. Anchoring affection. Remembrance and hope for the future, at least for a while. And afterward, we talked. Well, Spike and I argued, mostly... almost came to blows... but still, it was more communication than he and I had ever shared before.

And Buffy... my beautiful love... How she's grown and transformed. No longer a selfish, immature child, but a woman, full of wisdom and insight beyond her years. Yet her compassion hasn't changed... her Slayer's instinct for protecting and caring. We lay face to face for hours, talking over the million moments of one another's lives that we'd missed. I listened to her tales of soldiers and man-made demon-machines... about her sister, who apparently isn't her sister at all... her mother, her friends, Giles. My heart shattered for her when she talked about Riley. How much she had wanted to do what I'd asked of her -- have a normal life... normal love. I held her while she cried about how guilty she felt that she couldn't make it work... how she felt like she'd betrayed both him and me... that she'd begun to wonder if there was something wrong with her, because those who swore to love her never stayed.

I told her that *I* still loved her... more now than ever, in fact, and that I would until I ceased to exist. I'd be willing to bet the same was true of Riley. It was only the specific circumstances... maybe individual flaws in us, not in her. I knew that was at least true for myself.

I'm not a man who shares, much. I've been solitary for so many years, opening my heart and sharing my endless pain and small triumphs is a foreign concept. But looking into Buffy's eyes again... eyes the color of earth, sky, and grass, by turns... her warm body against me, her arms pulling me close... it was like a key had turned in the rusted lock of my heart, and I was soon telling her everything. Well... almost. I didn't bother telling her about the Day That Wasn't, or about my supposed Shanshu -- what would be

the point? But I told her about the people I'd met... the work that I'd been finding fulfillment doing... the family I'd built for myself (who I had spent the past months pushing away). I told her about Doyle... Wolfram and Hart... Darla...

Maybe I said more than I should have about my Sire and former lover. But isn't she the root of this decay that has been eating my soul away these past months? The confusion her reappearance brought... the feeling that I had really, finally made an important difference when she accepted her fate with such beauty and grace... I loved her for the first time during those few, brief moments of peace. To have that so cruelly ripped away -- by supposedly human beings, no less-- was what finally drove me into the insanity in which she and Spike found me. What made me question: *why* did I ever care what happened to humanity when so many of its members were capable of such... savage, cold barbarity? Worse evil than even the demons of Hell were known for?

I told Buffy all of this. Maybe I shouldn't have. She doesn't need any more burdens thrust on her because she cares about me. Maybe it was just more grief on top of all the other wounds I'd inflicted on her. Maybe I was just breaking her heart yet again.

But once I started to talk, I couldn't stop. It all came rushing out of me in a surge like a tidal wave. And when I came to that final moment -- after my Sire's death-- that final act, my greatest shame and my greatest triumph in one... when I threw the deadbolt on Holland Manners' wine cellar and turned my back on my Calling... my own humanity...

Buffy cried. Rivers of tears ran down her soft cheeks and splashed to her throat.

"Oh God, Angel," she whispered, reaching a gentle hand up to touch the tears on my own face, "I'm so sorry."

I don't know what I expected her to do. Maybe I hoped that she would condemn me... tear herself out of my arms and scream in shock and loathing. It was almost what I wanted... and certainly a great deal less than I deserved...

But she didn't get angry. My beloved didn't pass judgment on the horror I'd wrought. The murders I committed indirectly, but with purpose and intent. Instead, she wept. Not because of me... but for me.

Oh, God, I love her... I hold her warm, tiny body tight, taking deep, gulping breaths of her scent as I cry right along with her. I breathe her in... her aroma... her skin sweet like vanilla, like power and innocence... sunshine... wisdom and pain a woman her age should never have to possess...

And now she smells like us, too. My Childe and I... her skin an aromatic illustration of everything that's happened to the three of us, together and separately. A map of my existence.

That scent is intoxicating... dizzying. Can you imagine being able to relive the most poignant moments of your entire life by pressing your nose to your lover's flesh? Being so close to her...

I'm filled with the joy of being able to touch her... and filled with fear at being compelled to touch her. The choice is not mine...

I know that we're playing Russian Roulette, here. Just because I didn't lose my soul last night doesn't mean I won't the next time... We don't really understand the Curse. What triggers it and what doesn't. Where is that fine line now that I can't cross? It once was simply her... touching her... being inside of her. But I've never been inside another being the way I was with Buffy last night. So it can't be only that simple physical expression...

Maybe all the pain... just wondering about it... Maybe it's Spike's presence... or the low hum of voices in the back of my mind, reminding me that I'm a failure... a monster... a waste of space. Reminding me always that my hold on this reality is so tenuous...

Whatever the reason, I don't think that Perfect Happiness is even in the realm of possibility for me anymore.

Yet... this *is* joy. Not flawless, perhaps, but... Her tears turn to sighs as I kiss her, long and slow... my beloved... most precious breath of my soul. She's so warm, so real, so beautiful. Her tears smell like the rain I hear falling outside... her lips taste like sunshine. I can't not touch her... whatever the consequences. The sensation of my hands on her skin is the only thing keeping me from disappearing back into the abyss again. I'm convinced, in this moment, that it is only her lips against mine, her little hands tangled in my hair that are staving off the madness that still threatens to take me at any moment.

The way Darla disappeared. Whatever potential she might have had... any chance for her redemption sucked straight into Hell...

I don't want to vanish like that. I want my soul... I want to have a purpose. I want Buffy. I want Spike. I want my friends and my life, what life I had before... I want to be well and whole. God, I want what I had back!

I kiss all of this into my Slayer's lips... let her drink it from me with her tongue... I map the contours of comfort that form her lithe body... soft breasts... the slope of waist and hips... the slight curve of her feminine belly. So beautiful... so perfect. Gods, how I wish I deserved this. Wish I could be in her arms every moment of my eternity. I wish that my only consciousness could be of her hands caressing me in return. The fire of solace and abiding, timeless love... unquenchable desire... Why can't there be only this, for both of us?

I want to forget myself in her... and that's the danger. I know this... so instead, I focus on remembering. I watch her beautiful face contort in ecstasy as I dip my head to nurse on her hard nipples, suckling her gently... as I slip my fingers into the steaming wet apex of her thighs. She cries out, whimpers, and I remember. Where I have failed. What I have lost. How none of this is really mine to possess. Borrowed moments of passion

and love. Not forever, no matter how desperately I want it. No matter what my body believes to be true.

But I still can't stop touching her... can't stop marveling in the miracle of her woman's body. How my whole being throbs as she presses herself against me, her hips thrusting upward into the stroke of my hand against her sex... This fire inside me is stronger than bloodlust... maybe stronger than my undying devotion to everything that she is... everything that she has given me...

Buffy's soft gasps are like music... a sweet melody of agony and pleasure. I kiss her deeply and swallow the quickening whimpers she makes as she approaches her climax.

Maybe I can't save the world. Maybe I'll never amount to anything. Maybe I'm helpless and hopeless and eternally teetering on the edge of sanity...

But right now, I can give her this. I can give us both some reprieve from all the agony... the weight of all our heavy burdens.

Oh, God... I need her... I want her. I have to be a part of her... her strength... her light. I need to be devoured by her power, if I'm going to hold on. I need her to help me remember...

I can smell her orgasm coming. I feel the way her muscles bunch and quiver against me... the little cries she makes into my mouth as I claim her lips.

The demon and my soul are equally driven... lost in the undeniable urge to have her... take her. Now. Now in the rain and the day that we can't see growing outside. We need this. We need each other. They owe us just this one small comfort, don't They?

I rise above her, ease my weight onto her hips, and press myself inside. Buffy comes with a cry that is more like a sob, her body convulsing, her inner folds shuddering around me, and I take her mouth as I plunge deep inside this heat, this light, the blessing of her glowing flesh...

Just this moment. Just this right now, please... Please... for all the days we're forced to live apart... all the dreams we once shared, now torn to shreds... Please. Please. I promise, I won't forget... and I don't. I don't forget a moment, a drop of blood, a single cry of pain, a plea for mercy denied as I make love to the only woman who has every truly owned my dead heart. I remember everything. Where I've been, where I need to go, but her flesh... Oh, Gods! Her body!

Buffy wraps her strong legs around me and pulls me closer, and yes, I remember how I was once lost in this... the rush of feeling, of bliss, of trust...But there's no hope in this exquisite union. No delusions of forgiveness or happily ever after as I drive so deeply, I can feel her center against me. It doesn't matter. None of it matters. If I disappear tomorrow, it won't matter, because we are right here, right now, and I am safe inside my mate.

"Angel... oh, God, Angel... I love you... I love you..."

"Yes... mo croi... I need you so much..."

"Please don't let me go. Please."

"No. Never."

The words are meaningless... promises we can never keep. Things that will never be, but right now, they are everything. They are all we have.

One moment. It's only a single moment, and I don't forget even as I bend down to kiss her, and we rock into one another, lost in the pain and pleasure, and my world explodes, my aching body implodes, and all around my vision is pure light... that light I've been craving. The one at the nonexistent end of my eternally dark, infinite tunnel of pain and regret.

I can't forget even as I arch up and away from her, impaling her with all this want and need and horror... I throw back my head and wail her name...

"BUFFFFYYYYYYYY!"

Spent, I collapse above her, blanketing her small, tender form. I pull her tight against me and weep senselessly into her hair. She wraps her arms around me, and she holds me, whispering shushing nonsense... little reassurances, into my ear.

I don't know if I'll ever have hope again. Because even in the haven of her arms, I can't forget.

I slip into a sleep as deep as the death that will never come, and Spike's growling voice barely registers in my hollow, wasted mind.

"Do you two think you could keep it down over there? Some of us are trying to sleep."

* * *

I don't rest for long. The nightmares continue pulling me back to consciousness. And when I open my eyes again, realize that I still have my soul just like I knew I would, I find my first thought is of Perfect Happiness. Just one, precious, forbidden moment of it.

For humans, those moments are what make their brief lives worth living. Those tiny spots of light on an otherwise mostly dreary existence. The 'little things', they say, are what help you carry on. Your children's laughter. A lazy afternoon in the sunshine. The kiss of your partner. Fleeting flashes of belief that somehow, some way, everything will work out in the end. Hope. Love. People string together these tiny treasures and cling to them like the lifeline that they are. The guide that brings them through the darkness.

These are the things I am eternally denied.

The past two days with Buffy and Spike have been full of things that should be those moments. They certainly have all the requisite components. Having them here at all is its own sort of miracle. And, yes... they were the light that brought me back from where I was -- their love, their tenderness, their caring, their need. Need of me. This in itself might have caused me to lose my soul not so long ago.

So many little instants. My Childe's arm around me in the darkness. Buffy whispering how much she loves me still. Spike mocking me, introducing a hundred new ways to call me a homosexual. Buffy's eyes lighting up while she explained how her four-inch platform shoes are perfect for Slaying because of their heavy tread.

Making love with them both...

Yes... I've been looking at flawless bliss. I've been experiencing scenes from a life I've dreamed of every night for years.

From the outside.

Their presence here is for me, I know. They each mean what they say, and even more, what they do. They care whether or not I continue to exist. They want me in their realities. They love me deeply, each in their own way. These mean more to me than I can ever express.

But it's not mine. None of it.

Spike asked me why, knowing that Buffy and I could make love again... why would we not get back together?

I don't think I could explain it to him. To be honest, I'm not sure I understand myself, because some small part of me is wondering the same thing. I just know that she's not mine to have. Maybe the logic of all my old reasons have unraveled in the light of recent events, but I still feel that it's wrong. A certainty wedged into my core that I don't think I could articulate if I tried.

I know I seem better. I probably look better. By all outward appearances, my Childe and my Soul's Mate have chased away the shadows, the ghosts. They've smoothed over the shreds of my shattered mind with their love.

And on the surface, it's true. I feel better. I can smile and laugh, enjoy their presence and the sensation of their skin as I touch them. I can lie here and hold them while they sleep, and think, 'Yes, this is nice. My family. I belong. I love. I'm almost happy.'

But underneath all those very human feelings, the shadows remain. I still hear the screaming and howls of pain. The constant stream of voices both remembered and imagined that remind me...

It's an illusion, this comfort. This happiness. I'm nowhere close to absolved... nowhere near worthy. A million light years from the end of my penance. There is still so much to do... so much I have to make up for. And now, twice as many amends to make because of the things I've done with my soul intact. Those crimes are far less forgivable than the ones perpetuated by the demon.

I don't know what I'm going to do about Darla. It's true, what they say. If you destroy your Sire, you kill a part of yourself. That's why the unspoken, but strictly followed taboo against it in the vampire world. Even though I had no choice, the last time. Even though I had my soul, and it was either Buffy's life or Darla's, still I locked myself in my apartment and wept for days, afterward. I still felt the fear that the others of the Order

would hunt me down for my crime. And I've had nightmares of that moment -- the way she said my name as I plunged the stake into her heart--ever since.

Back then, I could stand away from it, and observe the pain from the outside -- my job was to protect the Slayer, annd my Sire was a threat. She was evil. End of story. And her voice became simply another in an endless chorus that already haunted me. Just another death at my hands.

But now? Now I have to wonder if Spike is right. Having seen Darla's soul... having found that light inside of her that somehow was so strong, that not even four centuries as a demon could blot it out completely. The way she reached out to me, in the end. The most hopeless of all the hopeless, the one closest to who I am and what has brought me here. She begged for my help. Accepted her destiny.

I watched hope being born in her blue eyes. Can I look into them now and drive a stake through her chest... watch her turn to dust again? Can I kill the memory of the trust I saw... that moment in her motel room when I finally felt like I had made a difference that counted?

Wouldn't it feel like murder now, even though her soul is gone?

I don't know. And I don't know if I have the strength or the will to find out.

I'm alive, yes. My Childe and my beloved worked together to save me. But do I have even one more ounce of faith and hope than I had the night I allowed my enemies to be slaughtered in that wine cellar?

That answer, too, eludes me.

Spike's right about Drusilla, as well. I did make her what she is -- a lost child, drifting... no ties to reality or sanity but whatever strong creature attracts her attention and takes her reins. She is nothing but raw instinct, cosmic vision, and the eternal torment of a broken mind -- a mind that I molded with my cruelty... my own two hands. Can I destroy her for that? For circumstances *I* created? Shouldn't *I* be the one punished?

Then I remember -- that is the purpose of my dark existence. Eternal acts of contrition. That is why I am here. That is why I am filled with this agonized keening, surrounded by a incessant stream of impossible desires and unanswerable questions. Why to my left is another creature of my own making as wounded and far from what he once was as I... and on my right the living symbol of everything I have craved for my future. They are so close... I can reach out and touch them. Kiss them. Give them pleasure. And yet,

they are denied me in the end. Because I know there are still so many miles to go...

The Powers are testing the mettle of my remorse, always.

How did Spike become so damned wise?

So I lie here in the artificial night created by the thick curtains on the windows, with my distant past on one hand, and my not-so-distant past on the other, and think about the ways the two of them bind me to my Self... my mission... my past and future, and wonder...

What will I do when I finally leave this sanctuary of caring they've created to heal me? Will I kill the vessel that once contained hope? Will I destroy the walking reminder of my most heinous evil? Will I return to the work I once loved so much? Will I fight to rebuild my relationship with friends whose trust I so callously tossed aside? Will things change with my two loves? Will I be able to keep my own disheartenment-- my own madness--at bay enough to go on, trudging endlessly into a future that seems to have no conclusion?

I lie here and listen to the rain outside... slip into uneasy rest, my emptiness cocooned by love and truth, and realize...

I don't know anything anymore.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buffy has a disturbing dream, freaks out, and has Spike defend her honor... sort of...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem that appears interspersed through this section is by John Keats. The whole text is after the end of XIIb.
> 
> (*Lines from the poem look like this*) ("Memories of voices look like this") (thoughts look like this.)

It's so dark... I stay completely still and let my night vision kick in. One of the fun benefits of Slayer powers -- I can see in the dark almost as well as they can.

(your lovers. your enemies.)

Yeah. Them. How long has we been sleeping, that it's this dark?

I wait for a good while. How long? I'm not sure. But I still can't see. There's nothing but black all around me.

I blink. Shake my head. It can't be this dark in Angel's room, can it? We haven't been in bed that long... the embers should still be glowing in the fireplace, at least.

Am I dead?

Okay. Don't panic, Summers. You're just tangled in the sheets or something.

I reach up for the edges... I expect to feel Angel next to me, even in the darkness.

There's nothing. Empty air. I hear thunder rolling in the distance, and I'm so *thirsty*...

Where am I?

Apparently, I'm not lying down, because I can feel floor beneath my feet. Have I been sleepwalking in the hotel?

I take a cautious step, feeling before me with my toes. I've trained like this... sensory deprivation. Earplugs, blindfolds... I've learned to reach out with my other senses to figure out what's going on. Since my sight is  
gone, there's nothing to touch, and I can't hear anything but the storm outside... I ground and center myself. Concentrate. Sniff. I smell fire... lust... blood.

That could just be us, right? Angel, Spike and I?

I shiver with the sudden memory of Angel's fangs in my throat, the pounding, pulling, rushing sensation of my lover drinking the life flow straight from my heart... the incredibly erotic sucking music of his mouth... and Spike's too. A circuit of sanguine connection...

Okay. Now's not the time for horny fantasies. I have to focus. Figure out where I am. I can do this.

I concentrate on the origins of the scent. Warm air, damp... sweat, maybe? My skin prickles. Up ahead.

I brush my hands off on my...

Dress?

I take a moment to feel my outfit. I'm not naked, which I was the last time I checked. I'm not wearing my nightshirt. I feel thick material... not cotton, I don't think. Rough silk? Heavy, floor length skirts, bell-shaped.  
A corset. My breasts held high out of a gaping, lace-edged neckline.

I've *got* to be dreaming.

I take another step. Another. I'm on solid ground, I think... I must be *somewhere*... the smell is getting stronger, the air heavier.

In the distance, a dim light peeks around the edges of a doorframe. Firelight. A room. The rain, and voices, now.

Right. I'm home.

No, wait... This doesn't smell anything like my house... no teenage sister and sick mom, no memories of vampire boyfriends sneaking in and out my bedroom window... And this dress isn't even something I've ever seen, let alone something I've worn or owned.

But some part of my brain knows the names of the materials... muslin... crinoline... French lace. And those smells -- hearthfire. Tea. Pleasure. Heart's blood. Family. Home.

I hear his voice, and it rushes through me... that too is where I live.

(*this living hand, now warm and capable*)

I take another step forward. Angel. That much I know.

(*of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold*)

It's his voice, but strange... an accent. A chilled edge.

Angel?

(*and in the icy silence of the tomb*)

A woman's laughter. The door comes closer, its framing light brighter.

Another step. The darkness swallows the space behind me. The rustling of my heavy dress echoes even above the storm pounding on the roof, and the velvet resonance of his voice.

My love...

(*so haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights*)

A snap, like leather cracking. Or is it thunder? Someone cries out. Pain, or pleasure? It's hard to tell the difference...

I'm so cold. Thirsty. Starving. It's been so long since I've been home... I reach out for the doorknob, but don't touch it... I need to see if it's hot first, because of the fire within.

The woman within giggles. The doorknob's not hot, so I turn it.

(*that thou wouldst wish thine own heart dry of blood*)

Lightning flashes, blinding me for a moment as I step into the warmth of the room. They look up. I know them. Feel them in my bones, but they look so strange...

(*so in my veins red life might stream again,*)

He looks up. His eyes are dark and empty, sparkling cold and beautiful with lust. His hair is long and silky, blood on his lips. He smiles.

I'm dying of thirst. I want those lips.

Naked, the two of them, pale and gleaming. Spike... No, Not-Spike. His hair is too long, and the color of burnt honey, instead of winter wheat.

"Ah, and there's me mate, now. Where've you been then, love?" Angel asks.

His big hand strokes William's bare arm softly. The room spins around me, and I clutch the doorframe to keep from falling.

"Ooooh! Daddy, she's falling! Into the dark, where the flowers bleeeeed...."

I whip my head around. Drusilla sits on the floor beside the bed, fully dressed, looking up at me with visions and starlight in her dark eyes. Her doll has no hair.

"What?" I ask her. She smiles like she doesn't understand what I'm saying.

Not-Angel sits up, eliciting a whimper of protest from Not-Spike... oh, God, I'm going to be sick... Spike's neck is torn and bloody, and he stares at me with unveiled hatred. He's never looked at me like that before. Not-Angel stands up beside the tall four-poster bed, resplendently naked.

"Ye look ill. Have ye fed?"

What's wrong with his voice?

I blink at him.

"She's singing with the death in her soul...Close your eyes!" Drusilla purrs.

"Angel?" I ask.

Not my voice, either.

I'm going to puke. The room lurches. I stumble, but his arms are around me, and I don't fall. His voice is gentle.

"Come, dove. Sit. Have ye eaten something bad?"

Not-Angel helps me to an old-fashioned chair near the fire... the cushions are hard, and he has to help me arrange my skirts so I can sit.

"'Probly been eatin' whores again," Not-Spike grumbles.

"Hush, boy," Not-Angel snaps.

Oh, my God... where am I?

My hands are so cold... I look down at them. They're tiny and pale... blue veins under nearly translucent skin. No chipped Valentine Pink nail polish on blunt tips. Not my hands. I clutch them together in the lap of my gown,  
and try not to shake.

Naked Not-Angel crouches before me, examining my eyes. He looks deep...

"Pinch! Pinch! Eyes like needles! The raven sees where none else has flown, to drink from the well!" Drusilla rants, "Grandmum... they don't know..."

I hear her, but I can't look away from the fathomless depths of Not-Angel's eyes. He takes my hands.

"Good gods, woman. Yer cold as ice. What've you been at tonight?"

"I don't..." I mutter. I look around. The details of the room... dark woods and tapestries. Statues and oil paintings. Not-Spike glaring at me from the bed. "Where are we?"

Not-Angel blinks. His brow furrows deeply, a look of concern that I know so well... but it's all wrong above those empty eyes.

No soul. Oh, God. Angelus.

"Yer ill." He rests a big, cold hand on my forehead, frowning. "Let me put another log on the fire." He rises, regal and commanding even nude, his height imposing... have I ever seen him stand so straight and proud?

"Get out of bed, ya wastrel! Fetch my mate some tea!" he orders Not-Spike.

Who doesn't curse. Doesn't argue or make a nasty comment about Angel's prowess, sexual orientation, or virility. He averts his eyes and climbs out from beneath the covers, as naked as his Sire but the blood running down his chest. He puts on a billowing white shirt with puffy sleeves, and flashes me a look of consuming loathing as he stomps barefoot from the room.

Drusilla watches him go, then turns those haunted eyes on me. "You're not her. My Spike hates her. You... you're bad. Wicked. Evil killer of good children. You've taken them all away..."

What the Hell is that loony-tune...

The dizziness hits me again, stronger this time. I close my eyes and try to will myself awake. I'm dreaming. I don't want to be here. Not with him. Please, Angel...

He stokes the fire... the flames grow, but I keep getting colder.

I take a deep breath... or try to... my lungs won't flex. They won't expand right. It feels like they're cracking, like I haven't used them in a long time. Like I don't make a habit of breathing.

Like I'm dead.

A choking sound I didn't know I made rips from my throat at the realization... at my aborted attempt to take just one damn breath. Drusilla laughs at me from her dark corner, and starts singing about Grandmum's false  
skin. Angelus returns to my side, and takes my hands.

"Love, you know ye need to be more careful what you eat, here. This is Delhi, not London. The humans have diseases most of the world've never heard of. I shouldn't haveta remind ye that..."

He helps me to my feet, supports me tenderly under the elbow.

"Thirsty... can't... breathe..." I croak. My bones feel hollow... dry and brittle. My skin feels frozen, like it might flake off my body at any moment. Dry. Bone dry. All of me.

"You don't have to breathe, love..." Angelus is kind... which makes all of this worse. He undresses me with gentle, practiced care, and eases me down onto the enormous featherbed.

"He doesn't believe in you, Grandmother..." Drusilla whispers conspiratorially.

I look up at him and wonder... how can soulless eyes be filled with affection? How can he care?

"'Ere's the tea, Sire," William says.

I close my eyes again. Count to 10. 20. 50.

"Whattsa matter with her?"

"I dunna ken, Will."

"Was jokin' about the whores, but... she doesn't look so good."

I'm starving. I can't speak anymore to tell them. They're so far away, but I feel Angelus' weight press down on the mattress right beside me.

"Sh... My Precious Spike... don't tell him, or he'll eat her. Grandmum is hollow and all gone..." Drusilla murmurs.

"Hush, Ducks."

"Love... can ye hear me?"

"Hungry," I rasp.

"What's she sayin'?" William asks.

Lavender. The sheets smell like lavender and blood and cool skin.

"She wants the nectar. Sing sing with the bees!" Drusilla tells them, "Like the kittens down the well...crash! They fly away."

"Drusilla, please."

"Maybe you should feed her."

My family... my beloveds and their insane woman child...

Why am I so empty?

"It's near dawn. We canna go out and hunt now."

"A servant, then?"

"Ye know better than that, Will. They'd be missed right off. I've a better thing."

His weight shifts. I hear flesh tear. Smell blood. Angelus holds his broad wrist to my lips.

"No," I protest.

Thunder crashes.

"She knows the light in the shadows. She is lost in thorns and can't find her way out again..."

"Drink, love."

No. I love him. I love them. I'm part of them, but I don't want to be them...

Do I?

"Sire, she's not drinking."

"Doncha think I can see that, fool?"

"Angel, please..." I whisper. Taste the copper-cold tang of his blood as my lips touch his wrist.

(*and thou be conscience-calmed--see, here it is --*)

Oh... God... he smells so good... He brushes my cheek with his free hand...

(*I hold it towards you*)

"Drink, love. Ye'll feel better. We'll get ye something fresh on the morrow."

Closer. Wet. He smells like night.

I'm so thirsty. I feel my body start to shake.

As my lips seal at last around his flesh... my teeth--no, fangs--clamp down... he grunts as the skin separates and I drink and I'm falling into him...

("show me your world")

("close your eyes")

("I love you...")

("Don't leave me, Sire...")

("run and catch, run and catch...")

("I try not to, but I can't stop...")

("you have no idea what it feels like to have done the things I've done...  
and to care.")

("BUFFFYYYYY!")

Dust and death and the world in his veins.

("You damned me.")

Is there anything else to believe in, or is this all there is?

Affection and hate... madness, hope, sorrow, jealousy sweet in his blood.

And I drink.

(*I hold it towards you*)

Twenty five decades of life. The edges of the earth. The thrill of the hunt. Cold flesh on cold flesh. Tears and sighs... laughter. The crack of a whip. The call of the moon, craving the stars... howling.

("He was my Sire, ya bloody twit! That's a damn sight more intimate than this!")

("I made him. There was a time when we shared everything, wasn't there, Angelus?")

He tastes like home, and I drink. My everything is in him. It pours back into me, and he moans from somewhere far away.

("For that one moment, I loved her... 150 years, we were together, and it was only then when I saw who she could have been.")

("Haven't you ever wondered what it is we fight for?")

Copper pennies suspended in corn syrup. Bounds that cross centuries and endless, empty miles. The others don't know. They don't understand the taste of life and death in one.

(*so in my veins red life might stream again*)

"Angelus..." I moan into his blood.

Whoever said that demons don't love is a liar. I can taste love in him, or something just like it. Maybe not love like human hearts feel, but love of blood and bed. Sharing the kill and knowing no other way to be. Anchor in  
darkness.

He pulls his arm away, and I am broken without his nourishment. Alone. Starving.

"Darla..." he whispers, "Can you hear me?"

I open my eyes. The room is dark. The rain pounds on the roof, and Spike is snoring on the other side of the bed.

I turn and look into Angel's sweetly sleeping face... his hair the right length; the length it's been since I've known him, and I realize...

I don't know anything about him at all. I don't understand anything about the Blood, or decades in soft, perfumed beds.

Or what it feels like to love with an eternal heart.

I don't belong with them. I don't belong here.

I jump out of the bed and run. I don't know where... just away. I drank him, and now I swear I can hear his ghosts chasing me... I need the air. I need to see the sky.

I don't know anything.

(*so haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights*)

I'm the Slayer. I'm opposite of everything they are.

Alone.

I burst out the back doors of the hotel and run into the courtyard. The torrent washes over me, cold winter rain. I fall to my knees in the grass and shriek at the sky.

I was Darla. I was in her. I felt what they felt for her... affection... the tie... hatred... jealousy... lust... other things I couldn't identify... I felt all of it, and I'm always on the outside. I don't belong here.

"I HATE YOU!" I scream at the clouds, thick and black as smoke above me, and my tears wash away in the pouring sheets that fall from the sky. I don't know who or what I'm raging at... who or what I hate, and my tears don't count at all against the rain.

Outside. Always outside in the cold. Always alone.

"WHY??? WHY????" I scream.

Why any of it? Why was I Chosen? Why did Angel go into that alley with Darla? Why did Spike choose that path to walk on the night the Initiative took him? Why? Why? I don't understand!

Why are we always outside, alone? All of us... the vampires, the Slayers, the witches, the werewolves, the awkward, big-hearted geeks, the ex-cheerleader visionaries, the dead half-demons, the ex-Watchers, the  
former-demons, the Key to the Gates of something I don't understand... We're all of us dying over and over again, always losing...

All this water, and still, I'm perishing of thirst.

I fall to my knees in the grass. Fell the mud splash up over my shirt. And I scream.

* * *

Strong arms encircle me.

"Come on... you'll catch your death out here, Pet," Spike says gently into my ear, "Not that that wouldn't be amusing, but I doubt the Grand Poufter would approve."

He pulls me to my feet and brings me out of the rain. I sob into his chest.

"I was her!" I wail, "I drank his blood, and you brought me tea!"

Spike leads me up the stairs, holding me close to his side.

"Oh, Hell... why do I always pick the psychotic ones?" he grumbles.

Up the stairs, down the hall... Darkness.

He plunks me down on the toilet, and I bury my face in my hands. What's wrong with me? I hear the shower start to run, feel the steam, and still I can smell the sweet solace of Angel's blood... our blood...

"I've never... I haven't..." I hiccup.

Spike pulls me to my feet, and tugs off the soaking night shirt.

"Look atcha... you're a mess," he says, like I'm an errant child he's found wandering outside.

But aren't I?

"Spike, I haven't..."

"Haven't what, Pet?" He helps me into the shower. Kicks off his shorts and climbs in behind me. I lean back against him, not sure if I can stand on my own anymore.

Oh, God... the water feels so good... he's so solid and real against my back...

("Probly been eatin' whores again.")

I want the water to wipe me clean... wash the alone away. Spike holds me gently, like I'm delicate, and might break.

"His blood, Will. I've never tasted it."

He tenses... doesn't respond, at first. His strong hands, slick with Sandalwood shower gel (angelscent) rub into my aching skin. Caring. Soothing. Reassuring.

But I don't belong here.

"Tastes like lima beans. You're not missing anything," he lies.

I know Angel tastes like candy and fireflies... wisdom and spice. My everything is in him. No... every everything is in him. Spike's heart. Drusilla's mind. Darla's soul. Me. I cry harder, nearly choking on my tears and the water.

"Aw, Hell, Slayer," he gripes, gently rinsing me off. He climbs out first, wraps me in one of the thick bath sheets, then scoops me up and carries me back into the bedroom, depositing me carefully on the bed beside Angel.

"What happened? Is... she okay?" Gentle Angel-voice. "Buffy?"

The bed sinks as Spike sits down. "Think she caught your bloody dementia or something."

"I was her!" I cry, "I know what she is! I was in her!"

"What?" Angel asks.

"She musta had a nightmare. Ran screaming out of here, ranting about blood and Darla's dress or something."

"Oh," he says. "Why don't you get her some tea, Will?"

I huddle close to Angel's legs, feel his hand soothing circles on my bare back.

"It's okay, love. You just had a bad dream," he murmurs.

No. Not a dream. I want to ask him... were you in India with them, right before you got your soul back?

Blood. I can't stop thinking about the Blood. What it all comes down to. Angel's tasted mine... I run in his veins. Spike's tasted his... he gave him eternal life. I'm the only one not really tied to all of this. The X factor in the equation, and suddenly it sits like a hollow space in my gut... a craving. Hunger to know... to feel. To be.

"Angel... please," I hear myself whimper, "I'm so hungry..."

He slides over, lies down beside me, and we are face to face once more. I look into his eyes... relief to see fire there. Not Angelus.

"Do you want something to eat? How can I help you?"

Feed me... How do I tell him? How can I explain the hunger, the thirst, the emptiness?

("You think you know what you are? What's to come? You haven't even begun.")

"I... n-need... I... want..." I can't say it. I don't know how.

Spike comes back with a cup of tea in his hand.

"Way I hear it, she wants to drink you, plonker. She feels left out or some such bullocks. Been doing this whole 'trying to understand what makes her the Slayer' thing. Dracula put it in her head, I think, stupid drama fag, cape-wearin' bastard."

"Dracula?" Angel asks, obviously confused, "When did you see Dracula?"

How the Hell does Spike know me so damn well?

Angel gently urges me upright, and looks straight into my eyes. Those eyes... God... they've always looked right through me... He looks concerned, perplexed... but not nearly as disgusted as I thought he would be.

He holds both my hands tightly.

"Is this true?" he asks. I don't say anything. "Buffy... tell me what's going on."

Is this really happening, or am I still dreaming?

"I... yes... no..." I stutter, and burst into tears again. "I don't know! I just... feel like there's something... important that I need to know, and... you both already know it, and..."

"I can't believe this," Angel mumbles.

"Why don't you just let her? What's the harm?" Spike asks.

Angel keeps staring at me, his face totally unreadable. I have to look away. There's just too much in those eyes. Too much I don't know... that I've never understood. I don't belong...

"No. I don't want her to have to carry that kind of burden," he says softly... flatly, and glances away.

"Oh, sure. But it's okay for me to bear it, right? Yeah, that's just all bloody fair."

"Will... this is different. If she drinks me..."

"You'll be bloody bonded. Sharing thoughts and feelings, blah blah bloody blah. Yeah, I know all the fuck about it. Newsflash, Peaches! She's already got the pain part! Hell, that night I bagged her in the cemetery, we were  
like a bloody digital telephone line to your ass! But she doesn't get any of the good stuff -- the comfort, the knowing..."

"She's not a vampire. She can't..."

I close my eyes and fall back on the pillows. I don't care. I'm not here, anymore than I was in India in 1887, wearing Darla's skin. I'm not hungry. I can't still smell his blood.

"She's your bloody *mate*! You *marked* her, you fuckin' idiot! She's as close to a damn vampire as she's gonna get without being dead!"

"It's not right."

"Wait just a goddamn minute. You're only gonna give your bloody *chosen* the *sore* enda the effin' deal? That's real goddamn heroic of you!"

I pull the pillow over my head. I'm not here. I'm not here. None of this is happening.

("He doesn't believe in you, Grandmother.")

I don't care. I'm not here. This isn't happening. I want to go home.

(you are home.)

"Spike, you're scaring her."

"I'm not bloody *scaring* her, ya wank! I'm telling the damn truth -- she knows it, and you know it! I'm not the one who *drank* from her and then bloody *left* her with half a tether, then run off to go nutters in the damn  
sewers! No wonder she can't keep a bloody man!"

"Spike..."

"Why don't you ever finish what you start, Angelus?"

"It wasn't my choice!"

"No, it never is, is it?"

"Boy, if you don't shut your mouth..."

"What, you gonna dust me? Huh? Beat me raw? Bugger me dry?"

"Don't push me, whelp..."

"Whelp? I'll give you fucking whelp..."

I sit up with a jerk that jars my head. "BOTH OF YOU SHUT UP! Stop this! Just... forget I said anything, okay? You're right. I had a nightmare. End of story. Just... let it go. Pretend I didn't..."

Pretend I'm not sitting here dying...

Spike (totally naked Spike, I might add, wearing nothing but a dark scowl and a cup of tea) glares at me. "Pretend you didn't just go running, screaming out in the damn rain because you're full of his bloody PAIN?"

"Will..."

"Don't fucking 'Will' me, Angelus! You've treated her bad enough!"

"You insolent little..." Angel growls, "You don't know what you're talking about."

Spike flings the cup across the room. Angel and I, a million miles apart on the bed, both jump at the sound of shattering china.

He stalks toward us, pointing an accusing finger at his Sire.

"You son of a bitch. It's bad enough you took her to mate to begin with! A little kid, and the SLAYER, no less! You can't do what you did and just walk away, goddamn you! You goddamn well planted something in her, just like you did me, and I'll be damned if I'm going to let you leave her half-bound like she's some chit you picked up in a bar!"

The second unspoken "like you did me" rings in my ears. Is Spike really sticking up for me? Why should he care?

Maybe it's me that's gone crazy. Or maybe I'm just starting to understand something about what vampires really *are*...

Angel flinches and closes his eyes, his face collapsing into misery.

I think I'm more confused than anything. This isn't what I wanted to happen. I don't know what I wanted to happen. I'm not even sure I understand what's happening now.

"That's... that's not... It wasn't like that. I..." Angel mutters.

"No? So you didn't feed from her, leave her alive, then walk away? Hell, she 's a quarter bloody made, you bastard! No wonder she's so damn miserable, and you're half out of your tree!"

"This isn't happening. This isn't happening..." I start babbling.

"What's wrong with me has nothing to do with Buffy. Or you, for that matter, Spike."

The blonde laughs... one of those really cold, hollow sounds that makes me shiver even harder. I'm going to throw up.

"You just get more and more stupid with every orgasm, doncha? You're the Sire, here, mate! You're the one who's supposed to understand how all this bloody bond bullocks works! We knew something was wrong with you --the both of us-- long before your little bimbo secretary ever picked up the damn phone! You think I don't feel you every damn day? But I got the whole package, didn't I? Pain and pleasure for a coupla damn decades. Still got the whole tie, if I concentrate hard enough. What's she got? Fucking bittersweet memories and a bleedin' scar on her neck. She can't bloody well hook up with any other bloke, but she doesn't get to claim you, either! And you three-quarters batshit because your whole damn pack's going all to Hell! Just let her fucking drink you already, seal the damn deal, and maybe that'll clear both your scrambled heads up!"

The silence as he finishes he speech is deafening. I slowly sit up, and find him hovering over us... Angel sits, frozen, eyes wide, to my right.

It can't be that simple, can it? Simple... I almost laugh. This situation can't possibly get any more complex. We're talking about... drinking each other's blood...

"If you won't bloody do it, I will," he concludes harshly. "I'll finish your shoddy handiwork. I'll take her, if you can't handle it."

I stare even harder. Does he mean... kill me? Or...

Angel's body goes completely rigid beside me... a low, dangerous growl begins in his chest. I can smell his anger... his jealousy.

"Like Hell, you will. I'll see your Final Death first, boy."

"Okay, that's ENOUGH!" I sit up and take a deep breath, looking back and forth between them. I'm surprised to see neither of them is in game face... but they still look like they're ready to tear each other apart any second. "It was just a damn dream! I had a nightmare -- it happens all the time. You guys are overreacting!" The lie tastes bitter on my tongue, but I say it anyway. We're losing focus, here...

If we had a focus in the first place. I'm not even sure, anymore. I push the memory of blood, of Angel half-dead, of Angel making love to me, and Spike probably being right, as usual, out of my head.

They don't take their eyes from one another. The electricity... the violence and danger crackling between them, makes the little hairs on my neck stand on end, and my stomach cramp. I go on.

"Look. Maybe it would be best for all of us if I just... go. Angel's better, and really... we're just going around in circles, now."

I hear myself say it, and feel the words ripping into my heart. Now I guess I know a little bit how Angel must have felt when he left. But I just can't do this anymore...

Neither of them move, but their focus turns to me as I climb out of bed and start getting dressed.

I won't cry. We did what we came here to do. Angel's back, and he's fine. The rest is up to him.

("She is lost in thorns and can't find her way out again...")

Whatever this is... the bond, or half-bond, or whatever... it's obviously not doing any of us any good.

"Buffy..." Angel says softly.

I swear, the scar on my neck throbs at the sound of his voice, and I have to wonder if maybe Spike is wrong... How can Angel and I possibly hurt for and because of one another any more than we already do? This isn't right. It's not fair, to any of us. Our existence can't possibly get any more confused and convoluted.

I don't turn around. I pull on my jacket and just keep walking.

It's better this way. Just go. Leave all this behind. All this pain... the ache in my bones and the fire in my blood. (thirsty...) Maybe he and Spike can work out whatever they have to... but I don't think there's anything  
else for Angel and I to say. We've hit that wall that's always stood between us... the difference between what he is, and what I am. And there's just no way to get around it.

I make it through the door. That's good. No one's going to follow me. I'll just walk out of here. Call Cordy to take me to the bus station. Leave all this madness (your family. your lovers.) behind.

The hallway is dark. I can hear the rain pounding on the roof. Thunder crashing.

I can barely see, but I know where I'm going.

Don't I?

(away, that's all. somewhere... anywhere... else.)

I can smell the fire behind me. Lust. Love. Blood.

(home)

The tears come again. I'm so tired of crying. I never asked for any of this. I never asked to love him, or need him the way I do. He never asked for it, either.

I make it to the top of the stairs. I feel like I've walked so far, but it's really only a few feet. I have to keep going. There's nothing for me, here. Nothing but this hunger, confusion, agony... I have to go.

A hand stops me, resting gently on my shoulder.

I stop. Automatically reach up and put my own hand over it.

(*this living hand, now warm and capable*)

"Don't go," Angel says softly, "Please."

He gently squeezes. I squeeze in return. A reflex from deep in my cells.

(*of earnest grasping, would, if it were close,*)

I close my eyes. Feel him run through me. He smells like home. Like heart. He wraps his arms around my shoulders, and presses tender kisses into my hair.

"I need you," he whispers, "I know I don't deserve to ask, but... please. Stay."

(*and in the icy silence of the tomb*)

"Spike's right, Buffy. I've done wrong by you. Dishonored you. I didn't mean to, but I did."

"No," I breathe, leaning back into the comfort of his big body. "You did what you had to do. The right thing. You always do."

Where did my conviction go?

He turns me around slowly, and I look up into his face... his eyes so warm and full. (god, I love him...) He shakes his head.

"Not always. Not this time. I was running so hard from what I am, I forgot to realize the implications of things I did. Especially with you and Spike."

(*so haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights*)

His cool fingers brush my cheek. He looks deep into me... so deep, I know that his soul can see mine.

"I'm sorry. Let me make it right," he whispers. "With both of you."

I hear the soft shuffle of footsteps behind us. Spike stands silhouetted in the bedroom doorway, framed by the light of the fire.

I try to smile at him. I don't know if it works, but... Angel looks at him too, and then back at me again.

"I need you. Both of you. You're part of me, and I'm incomplete without you."

(*that thou wouldst wish thine own heart dry of blood*)

"Stay with me... take what I have... please."

His voice is so full... I can feel his pain. I feel them both... their tie to one another. Centuries of memories between them. The ache of a family torn apart, ties stretched to their limit, but never broken. We've all come  
this far... can we really heal each other?

How am I a part of all this?

("Your power so near our own...")

Angel takes my hand, his mahogany eyes never leaving mine, and we walk back to the bedroom, where Spike is waiting.

(*and thou be conscience-calmed--see, here it is--*)

(*I hold it towards you*)

I guess I'm about to find out.

~End Part XII~

"This living hand, now warm and capable  
Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold  
And in the icy silence of the tomb,  
So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights  
That thou wouldst wish thine own heart dry of blood  
So in my veins red life might stream again,  
And thou be conscience-calmed--see here it is--  
I hold it towards you."

-John Keats


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spike accepts his damn fate.

I'm not sure I know what the Hell's going on, here -- why the Slayer's flipping her lid, and why my idiot Sire is so against Bonding with her. I mean, he loves her, right? Says she's the root of his damn humanity or whatever, and I'll buy that -- long as it doesn't cost more than a buck or two. It's not like her drinking him is gonna Turn her, anymore than him drinking her is gonna Un-Turn him. So what's the problem? A little more shagging, a little bloodplay, and everybody feels better.

Pisses me off, this whole damn scene. Why the Hell don't they see what's as plain as the noses on both their stupid faces? Angel might be the only one who actually almost bought the farm, but the Slayer and me have been pretty much flailing about, too. Seems straightforward to me -- problem is, we're not pulling together a way a pack really should. Not working together.

Listen to me, bloody John Lennon, now... Imagine.

I see it like this -- Plonker's my Sire. We've been either apart or hating each other's guts for a century or so, and we're so messed up in the head, neither of us know which damn way is up. Before that, we were fine. So,  
solution? Get the bloody Hell back together. Same goes for him and the Slayer -- your soul withering without its mate? Get your bloody better half back, and keep her close, Curses and 'normal life' shit be damned!

But, nooooo. These two are all about the GWA, aren't they? Know shit about the easy way... everything's gotta be a damn trial and tribulation... weepin' and whinin' and gnashing of teeth.

Well, it's making me bonkers. And I'm not about to let the Slayer either die of pneumonia, or walk out of here without tying up all these damn loose ends. I'm not running around like this for the rest of my damn unlife!

You know, I'm the one with no soul, here. I'm the one who's selfish and focused on my own goals and no one else's -- I've got no conscience, for Skippin' Chrisssake! Why the bloody Hell's it been left to me to figure all  
this out?

Now that I think about it... maybe it's the soul that does the overthinking in these two idiots to begin with, and I'm the only one who can *see* what has to be done. As usual.

Anyway, the point is, Angel's been shirking his damn duty all around... by me, by the Slayer, by our Darla and Dru, and that's why his brain's turning to tapioca. He's the bloody Alpha, here -- he needs to take charge of his  
damn women. Track down D&D -- skip all that stakin' nonsense, and just take a little time to remind 'em who the Hell's city they're in. 'Snot hard...just a little domination. Chain 'em up, knock 'em around a bit, and their  
attitudes are good as new. Hell, I'd do it myself, but it's not my damn job. I'm Beta -- my duty's to his ass, not his whole damn family. I watch him, maybe his mate, make sure he doesn't dust my Dru, then kick back to  
watch some TV.

'Course, I did just sorta threaten to *steal * his mate, so... if he suddenly decides to start getting all technical-like about the vampire code, my ass would more than likely be toast.

But really... He shouldn't have left the Slayer hanging like he did. Fact is, he never shoulda gotten involved with her in the first place. Wanna play sidekick for the White Hats? Go to town. But stay the Hell out of the Chosen One's pants. This is a lesson I've learned the hard way, myself. And even if you can't do that (she is hotter than Hell, after all) you sure as FUCK don't drink her damn blood unless you're planning on killing her.

The thing about Blood and Vampires is this -- people may be walking fast-food joints, but what's pumping around inside them is a Hell of a lot more powerful than a Big Mac. Blood is the center of what we *are*. We  
exist because some sadistic demon a couple million years ago infected a few blokes with *his* blood on the way out of this dimension. Just a little "fuckallaya" to say goodbye by. Every one of us since is tied together by that single thing. And you better bloody well believe that we'll do anything to get it.

That's just simple feeding. When you drink, you take a part of your meal with you -- what they were gets to be part of what you are. And when you talk about Turning and Mating and such, it gets even more complicated than that. Hence all these damn Sire issues I got. Fucker's at the core of me, and I'm at the core of him, and we're one damn being until one or the both of us are dust. No hemmin' and hawin', arguing, discussing or  
philosophizing about it, no matter what Angel thinks. It just *is*.

If you let your meal walk away, you've opened up a can of worms you just don't want to deal with. You don't drink somebody's blood and leave 'em to wander around all confused - it's like eatin' the cow's brain, then setting 'em loose again. It's just not done. Not for mercy sake -- Hell, no-- but because it's messy, and they tend to follow you around until they drop dead. You either turn them, or kill them. I mean, I've heard of some vamps using human slaves before... most of the big Master's have 'em, and Blood is a hundred times more reliable than hypnosis or torture for getting one to do your bidding. Trouble is, if you go that route, you end up with the mindless cow I was talking about before. Grey matter gets all melted, will goes right out the window. Handy for canon fodder, but not so great if you want to leave the love of your damn life intact.

Buffy's only as sane as she is because she's the Slayer, I guess. She's got more will than most. But she's still chock full of major damn problems, just like me. The only answer I can see to all of this mess is a formal  
sort of mating thing to close the damn circle.

'Course, I dunno if it'll actually *work* on a human, even if she is the Chosen One. Might very well kill her, for all I know. But I'm doubting it. She's pretty damn tough.

I've never gone much for ritual. Truth is, I hate all that crap. Angelus used to, too. 'Probly rebelling against that Papist upbringing the Irish love so damn much.

But the Slayer's flipped out, and I think I've finally convinced him that what she needs is a shot of the Good Stuff... let him get under her skin as much as she's under his. Almost as much as he's under mine. If we're all  
bound together, I figure we'll all be better off, in the long run.

I can't believe I'm even thinking this. I mean, she's the damn VAMPIRE SLAYER! My arch bleedin' nemesis!

Oh, Hell, who am I trying to kid? I can't use that argument anymore. I know better, after the past week. I've been inside her... I've held her while she cried, and I even got up in the middle of the damn night to go  
chasing her out in the bloody rain so she wouldn't catch cold when her sense took a hike.

And I did just offer to be her damn Mate.

Face it, Will, you bloody moron. You're stuck with your noncy, souled Sire and the damn Chosen One for the rest of your eternal life.

Might as well make the best of it.

He brings her back into the bedroom. She's crying again, and he looks like his dead heart's all broken in a million pieces, and sod-all if I don't just feel like Hell, but warm and cozy inside at the same time.

Angel looks at me, long and hard, and I wonder if he's remembering that night he Turned me. I wonder if it was as deep and profound and mind-blowing for him as it was for me.

Probably not, seeing as how Angelus was a sadistic, self-centered fucker back then, and he was collecting me --a thing, just like Angel said-- as much as claiming me.

But, maybe now... the last couple of days, there's been a lot of emotion in his eyes... stuff I've never seen there before. Feelings for me, if you can believe it... So I get to wondering if his soul's a *good* thing, because  
every damn minute I spent with Angelus, I spent trying to get his attention... make him love me the way I soddin' worshipped him.

Needless to say, I busted my immortal ass more or less for nothing.

This look he's giving me right now... my damn knees turn to jelly. Dru always used to say he had eyes like needles... and she was right. Eyes like the damn Reaper's scythe, is more like it. Seeing him look at me like that fills me with this... goddamn *peace*, like a breeze going through me... like an itch I've had for a hundred goddamn years is finally getting scratched. I look right back at him -- eyes glued to that bloody *God's*  
face that haunts my dreams, and I realize what's happening, here. He's not just giving me what I've wanted since the night I died... he's *trusting* me. He's asking me to help him give Buffy--his precious Mate-- what she thinks she's been missing... what all of us have been missing.

It's a damn intense notion -- first time he's ever actually asked me to stand and be his Beta. I've been his bitch, his whipping boy, his bargaining chip, his whelp, his fuck toy, his vampire shield, his worst enemy -- I've done all that. But he's never asked me to do something so...traditional... big. Nothin' that most First Made are expected to do in a hunting pack.

I've never actually been his Childe, until this moment.

And fuck me if this doesn't just... change something in me. I can't describe it... I'm not the damn wordy one in this group. But I start to see that this is where we've been headed all along... maybe since the first time  
I lay eyes on that body... felt those eyes drill right through me, a hundred and thirty damn years ago.

I'm all of a sudden still. I mean... quiet. Not angry anymore, which is pretty bloody scary, considering I've been damn pissed off since I last saw Angelus in China, a hundred years ago.

It's this... relief. This... oh, fuck-all, I don't know... but I know the temptation's there to fall to my knees, start weeping like a babyman, and kiss his damn smelly feet. And I mean almost a compunction... like  
bloodlust... only wussier.

But I won't. First off, I'd rather be a pile of filth in his dustpan than grovel at his damn feet. And second... that's not what he needs from me.

And all of a sudden, I *care* about what he needs.

Go figure.

My mind's going a mile a minute with all of this heavy shit, but I'm not gonna let him see that. I try to pretend I still have a single shred of damn dignity left, and that I'm doing this because *I* want to, and not because he's asking me, which we already know is a damn crock.

Buffy's completely silent. Not quiet like she was a week ago when I was kicking her ass at chess, then nudged her into such a flamin' rage she fucked me raw in the middle of the damn cemetery. No... she's quiet for the  
same reason I am, I imagine. We both know something damn *important's* about to go down. Something that's going to change *everything* for all of us... he's alive, he's whole, he's here, and he's about to do his damndest to prove that we still belong to him, and him to us.

I've been having wet dreams about this moment since I became a damn vampire. Only... the Slayer wasn't usually involved. But, you know, as Chosen One's go, she's not so bad. Definitely my favorite, which I guess explains why the Hell I've never been able to bring myself to kill her.

We've spent three days shagging and yelling and working through all our damn *issues*, like this whole thing's been Therapy Summer Camp, but until now... right now, in this dark, poncy hotel room, we haven't all really been *together*, you know? Home. Not Square One, but Point Zero, where it all begins. Eyes wide open, nobody crazy or sick or confused. Just being what we are, and where we most want to be.

And ain't it poetic -- it's all about His essence. Sireblood. Loverblood... the stuff that ties us all together, and brought us to this moment. The reason why I'm in His bedroom in the damn 21st century and not mulch in some unmarked grave outside Whitechapel.

I don't think I've had this many deep damn thoughts in 130 years. Frankly, it makes my fucking head hurt.

Angel leaves the Slayer in my care and walks over to the fire. Drags one of the chairs from there to beside the bed, and looks over at us again, standing there in the fading firelight like a beautiful damn ghost. When he's all shrouded like that, I can't see his eyes real well, and he could be Angel or Angelus or any fucking mixture of the two. Personally, right now, I don't care which.

He stands there and waits.

I hold tight to the Slayer, who can't seem to hold herself up too well anymore. She kind of sags against me, gaping at him as I lead her over and sit her down in the chair, then turn to my Master again.

My fucking heartbreakingly beautiful bloody Maker. My God. The Center ofmy existence. I realize that if I stop thinking for a second and keep my mouth shut... if I don't move or breathe, or make any sound at all...

I can almost hear his thoughts.

I swear, time just stops. The only motion in the whole damn universe is his hand, rising up from his side, and gently cupping my face. If my heart was beating, you better be damn sure it would stop right now, and if I wasn't already dead, I'd be in a heap on the floor at his feet.

This bloody frustrating moralistic goddamn nancyboy superhero... the love of my fucking unlife... he leans closer, his eyes locked on mine, and when he kisses me...

Soft. Tender. Nothing else has ever happened to me before but this. He kisses me slow and deep, and I  
remember every damn inch of his mouth, that cool tongue sliding against mine... a languid caress. I hear myself sigh... I mean, one of those moaning breaths that washes up from your toes. I'm instantly hard as a damn stone, trembling like some bloody virgin on her wedding night.

Angel takes me in his arms, and I'm nothing but his lips and his hands, and goddamn it, I've missed him. I want him like I've never wanted another bloody thing in 13 damn decades -- not blood, not beer, not smokes... not even my Dru. I want him more right this second than that night he took me... killed me... made me his forever.

And now he's making me his again. Claiming me the way I wished he'd claimed me the first time. Rebuilding me from the cells up with those damn strong,gentle hands... gives me form as he runs them over me... just the lightest of touches that barely tickles the hairs on my skin, and I'm set with this burning hum all through me as my flesh just turns into a big pile of goosebumps.

Like being alive again. He always does that, every damn time he touches me. Angel really is my God -- he made me, he killed me, and he can kill me over and over again, any time he damn well pleases -- or resurrect me again, just the way he is now.

I press myself against him... feel the hard, familiar contours of his amazing goddamn body... and I'm suddenly falling. I close my eyes, feel his hands on my cock, my balls, stroking the most sensitive parts of me... blunt  
teeth nibbling on my throat... my collar bone... devouring me. Tender lips tease my nipples to diamond-cutter peaks... and he's moving down. Painting fire over the center of my body. I open my eyes again, and watch  
as my Sire gets on his knees -- his fucking KNEES--- his bloody huge, magnificent hands running down my sides. I tangle my fingers up in his thick hair, and remember it being long and clean and shining... remember  
untying little silk bows from the end... remember combing out chunks of flesh and gore from the curls, him laughing and kissing me all the while.

My hands start this remembering as they move of what seems their own free will... wandering over his thick neck... his broad shoulders... the first inches of his hard back. Good God, he's so beautiful...

Angel caresses my crotch softly, rings his fingers around my cock, cups my balls and Holy FUCKING GOD, please just let me die like this... let me be dust in his hands, his mouth... it closes over me, sucking me deep, until I can feel the back of his throat.

In... out... slow... long... tongue tracing, circling, tasting me. Master of blissful torture, my Sire...

"Jesus... Fuck, Sire..." I hear myself moaning, and pull him so tight onto me, thrust so hard into his mouth, that he grunts with the force of it. He starts making this... humming moan in the back of his throat. Not demon  
purring, exactly, but a human version... I'm seeing stars, I swear to fucking Christ.

My whole body is one big tense bloody knot in his hands... the vibrations rip through me as he clutches my ass and takes me even deeper, and I'm pretty sure that we're all about to see the end of William the Damn Bloody.  
Out of body, a million miles away, I hear this noise... this long, bellowing wail... I can't do anything but thrust and jerk deep into his throat and bloody keen as I come.

He's the only thing holding me together. The only thing keeping me from disintegrating as he drinks me down, licks me clean... nothing left of me but shivering blubber and post-orgasm bliss... no control over my limbs at  
all, and I feel my legs start to go.

But with a speed that only vampires -- and maybe Slayers -- can produce, I'm off my feet and face down on the bed, and the moment changes tone just like that. The blowjob was about giving in that totally human way that Angel puts so much stock in. But now...

He snarls as his huge body covers me... and all of a sudden I'm buried in tiny fang pinpricks on the back of my neck and shoulders... his nails digging into my sides. The demon in me comes out to play, growling in response to the rough treatment, 'cause it's *his* damn turn to get some.

Not gentle, not fucking tender, this... and I'm so goddamn glad I could just start roaring with it. But I'm the pup, here, and I'm not doing anything with my voice but whimpering as Angel pulls me up to my hands and knees beneath him. I can feel his thick cock poking against the juncture of my thighs, and I'm not thinking a bloody thing but, 'Yes, Sire, Fucking TAKE me. Kill me. Rip me apart!'

Yeah, I'm his bitch. His little whimpering love slave, and you better believe human tender sex don't hold a fucking candle to this. His hands parting my arse cheeks... no wet fingers inside, no soft tongue to lube... just Sire cock...he rips into me, and *now* I'm making noise... screaming; howling, in fact, as he pounds into me, tearing my whole world right in bloody half.

Jesus, it hurts! But the pain is part of it -- the agony and him grunting as he rips into me, jarring my body with every delicious, vicious damn thrust...

He doesn't need to give me a reach-around. My tackle's twitching and jerking and humming and aching just like the rest of me, and I'm going over just from the perfect violence of him dominating me like this.

Angel grabs me by the back of the hair, yanks my neck back tight, and blankets himself over me, rutting me right into fucking oblivion, and when his teeth shred into the back of my neck...

I let out a shriek like no sound I've ever made before in my life. He clamps down fierce on me, and I feel the end of the world coming as I start spurting all over the place. The sounds he makes when he drinks are just...  
fucking beautiful... sucking, grunting, and whimpering all at once. He hammers into my ass, and I collapse beneath him. He doesn't let go of my neck for one split second, but pins me flat as he drives deeper, harder,  
faster... he just fucks me and drinks me so damn hard, I'm dizzy. And right when I think I'm about to pass out, he lets go of my neck, clamps his hands down on my shoulders, and starts wailing.

Oh, Jesus H. Fuck, yes! He pounds me into the bed, and I feel him start to pulse inside of me, screaming my name and a bunch of bloody nonsense as he adds his cool seed to the blood he's drawn...

And then it's done. He eases out slow, gentle... lays a tiny kiss at the small of my back... tenderly laps at my poor, ruptured hole until I start cooing with the totally bloody paradoxical sensation of it.

Then he turns me over... lifts me up and into his arms like a baby. I'm weak with the blood loss and this... feeling... this overwhelming drowsy sensation of everything being right in the whole bloody cosmos. Angel  
cradles me against his chest, my face nestled against his neck, his hand softly petting the back of my hair, and whispers,

"Drink, Childe..."

I moan. Find my lips rooting along his artery like a babe searching for a tit... taste his sweet flesh against my  
mouth, and the blood... my blood... our blood, pounding beneath my lips.

I sink my teeth into that fount, and taste all of it -- him, me, us... Darla, Dru, even that wanker Penn... the Slayer and a thousand thousand souls inside him. I drink so deep, bite so hard, it hurts my jaw. It must hurt him, too, because his hands clutch my shoulders so hard I can feel the bruises forming. I really don't care. Ambrosia is an understatement when describing the flavor of him... mint and leather, pride and sacrifice, eternal goddamn life and belonging...

I lied to Buffy about his taste. I mean, there's just no way a human can understand, unless they've...

Oh, right. I remember what we're doing here, now. I remember, and you know what? I don't give a flying fuck, because all I want is to glut on him until I explode.

But he pulls me away gently. And sod-all if I don't let him. I look up into his stunning damn human face, he gives me a little smile, and kisses the last remnants of his blood from my lips.

Then turns to look at the Slayer. Damn if I didn't mostly forget she was even there. But when he looks, I look too, 'cause I gotta know what she's thinking of all this. It's not the sort of thing humans get to see, you know? At least... not and live to tell about it. Even if she is the Chosen One. Hell -- especially because she's the Chosen One.

But I'll be damned. Look at her. Flushed with desire, sweating a little, even, and not looking the tiniest bit scandalized, traumatized, or even shocked. Just... waiting.

She is one Hell of a woman, Buffy.

Angel holds me close to one side of him, and reaches out to her. She takes his hand, and he pulls her onto the bed, on her knees between us. She kneels there, and she and him look at each other for a long time, having one of those conversations that nobody can hear but them.

Then he looks over at me again, and my heart squelches in my chest.

He looks so damn happy.

Angel puts his free arm around Buffy's tiny shoulders, and pulls her to him... I feel her body trembling against me as her face goes straight to the gushing wound I just opened in his throat, and he gives this... fucking  
erotic gasp as her mouth seals over it, and she starts to drink like she was born to do it.

It's the most disturbing, beautiful, carnal, ironic goddamn thing I've ever seen. Buffy starts gulping, wrapping her little arms up around his neck, pressing her body against his chest, digging her fingers in for better  
purchase. He moans, low and deep, winding his fingers into her hair and sighs her name... and I'm instantly hard again.

The Slayer just keeps right on drinking... greedy little sucking sounds, her heart pounding, her breath fast...

Angel looks at me, and if that isn't perfect happiness in those eyes, then I'm Mother Bloody Theresa. They tell me what's coming next, and I realize that I better goddamn turn into the King of self-control in the next couple of seconds, or me and him are gonna spend the rest of the night trying to stake the world's first Slayer vamp.

I watch his eyes turn back to yellow as they tick down to the exposed side of her neck, and it's just fucking *bizarre* to see him be gentle as he eases his fangs into her. Buffy pushes away and cries out, her  
fingers spread and rigid against his back, and she arches into him. I can smell her arousal, wet and hot and dripping out of her, and it's just a reflex to reach beneath her and dip my fingers inside... She starts whimpering... grinding against my hand as I tickle her clit. Angel laps lightly at the bite in her neck, squeezing her plump little ass and murmuring into her ear.

He pulls her up off my hand and plants her solid onto his cock. She sinks down on him, wraps her legs around his waist, and he starts kissing her like no tomorrow as she rides him.

Oh... man. I swear her heart is going to explode, it's thundering so hard. And she's got this new smell, now. Hell, we all do... we're making a brand new bloody creature, right here, tonight.

Before I know what's happening, Buffy reaches out and urges me over to kneel behind her.

Son of a whore. Can this get any more damn kinky?

I rub myself all over her, pull tight to her back... I can feel my Sire thrusting up and inside of her... I reach between them... goop my hands slick, and start rubbing around the outside of her puckered little arsehole,  
then my latest, greatest hard-on...

Not an easy position... the norm, for us, I guess... But I could be a damn Tantric yogi, 'cause I manage it. Gentle as I can, I squeeze into her, and we all make the same damn sobbing noise as we connect, and Buffy tenses for a moment against the pain. I hold still. Angel whispers to her, and kisses her lips... I brush my hands over her shoulders and kiss her neck... then move into her until I'm buried to the hilt.

This is... fuck-all profound, is what. Angel and I find a matching, easy rhythm inside the Slayer, and in a moment, she's not only relaxed, but moaning and joining right in, meeting our every thrust.

Ain't gonna last too long, let me tell you. Any of us. She starts chanting, "Oh, God... Oh, God, OhGOD..." and Angel's making his desperate "out of control" noises, and I'm right on the damn edge, too. We're one  
damn body, one damn orgasm rushing on, one instinct. We all move in perfect time, like cogs and pistons in a damn machine, and at the exact same moment... that last fucking *amazing* moment, our faces all move down...

Angel tears into my throat again, just as I sink into the wound he left in Buffy's, and she goes back to his.

So we're feeding and sobbing, whimpering and fucking and bleeding, and everything just... stops. We all freeze at the same moment... all pull away from each other, and I swear on my eyeballs, we all howl so loud, the bloody windows rattle as we come together.

No bullshit. Three-way fucking simultaneous goddamn orgasm. How the fuck do ya like that?

We untangle, finally, and me and Buffy just sort of fall over in a heap on the bed. I put my arms around her and hold her to me, and listen to my body hum.

Damn, I love Slayer blood.

Buffy's instantly asleep. And no fucking wonder.

And ain't Angel totally upright, still! Can't bloody believe it. He sits there for a while, perfectly serene, just gazing at us with that goofy mush-head expression he always gets. He pets Buffy's hair and looks deep in  
my eyes.

I should probably make some kind of comment here, don't you think? But I don't. I just hold the Slayer close, and smile at him.

I'm such a pansy. Can't even bring myself to roll my eyes at him.

"I love you, Will," he says.

"Yeah. I know," I respond.

I'm not that much of a pansy.

"Hungry?" he asks.

"Yeah," I say. Guess my vocabulary's gone all mushy, too. "Pretty."

He smiles... that crooked half-grin thing that's his damn trademark, and I find myself wondering...

You know, I'm just getting used to his damn soul... is he gonna lose it now?

He gets up and ambles into the kitchenette like he wasn't half-dead or the most miserable creature on the damn planet just a few days ago. Like we didn't all just shag and drink the Hell out of each other. I watch him  
move... pull out a couple of blood bags from the fridge, pop them in the microwave, start it... then he pulls out other stuff... juice, eggs, bacon, bread, cheese, fruit. Whippin' up a smorgasbord for the three of us, bless  
his dead heart.

Angel starts-- you might want to sit down for this-- *whistling* as he cooks. So I'm thinking his Soul is good and glued in place, because Angelus, number one, wouldn't make breakfast for any-fucking-body, and two, he sure as fuck wouldn't whistle unless he was pulling entrails out of some poor bugger while they were still alive and screaming.

He comes back with this enormous tray covered with crap, and gently nudges Buffy awake. She's all rumpled, grumpy-drowsy, rubbing her eyes, and I help her sit up.

"You need to eat something, love," he tells her. She nods, still out of it, but obediently takes the juice he hands her, and gulps it down. I do the same with one of the mugs of blood, and so does he.

Aren't we just the picture of friggin' domesticity? We eat our breakfast in this peaceful, intimate silence, just giving each other little glances and smiles (and smirks, in my case). When we're done eating (or rather, when meand the Slayer are done. Bugger still won't eat human food), Angel takes it all away, throws it in the sink, and comes back to lie down with us again. Me and him curl up around Buffy, and he kisses her forehead, then looks over at me.

I feel like a brand new damn bride, seeing all that love in his eyes. Dunno what it'll mean tomorrow, if anything, but... I never was much of a planner anyway. I'll deal with whatever he throws at me when it hits. Right now,  
what's hitting me is that I feel better than I have in... Well... ever.

"I love you, Sire," I hear myself saying. Comes out without me even thinking about it. "I mean... Angel."

Oh, God. If I could move, I'd stake myself.

He reaches over and brushes my cheek. The last thing I hear as I drift off is his sigh, and whispered, "I love you. Both of you. More than you'll ever know."


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angel starts to get a handle on things... does some letting go, and some taking in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem is "The Cities Inside Us" by Alberto Rios.
> 
> (thoughts look like this) ("Remembered voices look like this") *lines from the poem look like this*

I watch them sleeping... my sweet angel and my little devil, and listen to their blood singing in my veins.

I'm tired. My body aches and yearns for me to join my two loves in the Dreaming, but I can't let my eyes close. There's too much moving through me... too many emotions and thoughts about this moment, and I don't want to  
miss a single one. After all, they'll probably be gone soon, and these past few nights will have to sustain me through eternity.

It's all right, though. I can feel them both inside me, now... smell them on my skin, and see them clearly in sharp detail, every time I close my eyes. No matter what happens next, they will always be with me.

For the first time in as long as I can recall, I feel as if I am truly standing on solid ground. What Buffy, Spike and I have shared tonight has shored up my crumbling foundations... reawakened my faith. Made me remember  
what it is I struggle for... and against. They're living symbols of crime and passion, sin and hope, mistakes made and forgiveness granted. I may not yet be close to absolution, but with their strength, their love, their trust  
and stubborn insistence on keeping me in the world flowing beneath my skin...

I know that I can get there. I have to. For them. For my family, if for no other reason.

But first, I have to let go. Of these two... and of my hopelessness, my grief. Let go of Darla. She's gone, and to let myself vanish with her would be a waste. There is still good that I can do in this world. I can still make a difference to who knows how many others, even though I failed utterly with her.

But did I fail, really? For the first time, I think about the facts of the matter, beyond the haze of my agony over it. It might have only been a single moment, but Darla *did* find her peace. She looked Death in the eye, and took its hand with a smile. She learned something about being human. She accepted what was happening to her. And she said that it was because of what she saw in me.

Me.

That's reaching out, isn't it? Part and parcel of my mission. Making a difference. Touching the darkest, loneliest of souls? What happened after in no way invalidates that, does it? My duty is to save the lost, and for  
that moment, wasn't Darla saved? She didn't renounce her decision to embrace her natural death, to find a human peace before the end. That chance was stolen from her. And I didn't *let* Dru Turn her -- there was  
nothing I could have done, in my condition... under the circumstances they put me in.

Cruel fate, nothing more. Except perhaps for the role that Wolfram and Hart played. But that's an issue for another night's ruminations... and revenge.

Killing Darla and Drusilla... I'm fairly certain that I couldn't go through with it, no matter how much my conscience tells me that I should. Because to destroy them is not part of my mission. To turn my back on my family, my friends, my Self, in order to hunt them down...

Another waste that would solve nothing. In the larger scheme of things, they are only two more vampires in a world filled with them. Yes... they were my Sire... and youngest Childe (yet another reason why I can't kill them), but not my Destiny. My Destiny involves a far bigger picture than the two of them and our history... I would be doing it to assuage my own guilt and responsibility, not for any more noble or acceptable reason.

I think perhaps this is the most important lesson for me to learn, right now... letting go. Not obsessing. Moving forward without looking back. Allowing the beings closest to me, both in the positive and the negative, to follow their own path without my interference.

But if Darla, Drusilla and I happen to cross paths in the future...

Well... then, we'll see.

And all of this comes from my lovers, who've given so much of themselves to heal and nourish me. It's far deeper than just the joining of our bodies or the blood that we exchanged... the Mating was only the vehicle through which Buffy and Spike shared their spirits. And it is that which has brought me to this clarity once again.

It's that mending that I can feel giving me strength. If they can forgive me... love me still, even after the things I've done...

Can't the Powers That Be?

I have to think maybe... yes. And if my Favoured Childe and my Soul's Breath can go on every day the way they do with their hurts and their burdens -- the wounds created by the circumstances of their lives -- can't I? If Spike can continue to be nasty, smart-mouthed and disagreeable... still fully Spike, despite being denied the very essence of his being... If Buffy can keep being so alive, so bright and giving, despite all the things her Calling has stolen from her...

If these two can see something worth living for... see something in me worth saving... it seems only right that I should find the strength to do the same. After all, the things that ripped my beloveds' dreams apart were not of their making. They didn't ask for any of it.

I did.

But now, with them inside of me... knowing that they are in the world, and that they care... It's enough to make me want to continue fighting. The deepest, most meaningful impetus to my mission:

Being worthy of them.

I don't know what will happen when we leave this room. Maybe none of us will ever be together again. But it won't matter. We're Blood. Bound together so tightly, so completely, that wherever we go, we are connected. Nothing will change that, now.

It's enough. For once in my unending existence, what I have right before me is plenty. I don't need... or even want... more.

It feels good, to be satisfied for a change.

* * *

My body is burning hot. Vision swims. I want nothing more but to die, now. I'm ready. All I needed was to see her sweet face again before I finally left this shell, and now I have.

"Then it's over."

I won't let her do what she's suggesting. I won't let her.

"It's never over! I won't let you die! Drink!"

I back away. She follows... hits me Slayer-hard. My skull rings... consciousness waivers.

(no)

("I'll never hurt her!")

She punches me again. The demon howls, ripping at its fetters.

("You were *born* to hurt her!")

(never)

And a third time. The bones and skin of my face stretch... fangs descend, and somewhere in my center, the monster roars, charging toward the surface.

(but I'm still here... it's still me looking at her. at this... abomination...)

Dying vision razor sharp.

(let me go, please...)

She grabs the back of my head, and pulls me toward her.

Mesmerized... weak... I can't resist.

("Drink me.")

(no...)

My face cradled in the crook of her fine neck... bloodlust wailing... body shattered... I smell her life... her power... her fear and desire. Taste her sweet skin. God, how I miss her skin. How I'll always miss it...

(yes.)

("She wants you to taste her.")

(yes.)

Her flesh parts like soft butter beneath my teeth... her artery ruptures, flimsy against my intrusion...

And she rushes... pours... storms into me. Fills me. I drive into her... take what she offers so freely... glut on her love.

(yes.)

We both shiver... moan... we fall hard to the floor.

I take her.

(God, yes.)

Kill her.

Listen to her heartbeat pound... race... struggle... slow.

("This is what you are.")

(yes.)

("Kill her.")

"NO!"

I wake with a start, and realize immediately that she's not beside me any longer. I look over at Spike... he hasn't moved an inch, which is unusual. He's always hyperactive, even in sleep.

(tired...)

Buffy's not in bed, not in the room, but she's still near. I get up. Feel the moonlight and sunlight blending in the first moments of the dawn outside the hotel.

How many days have passed? How long have we been here, hiding from the world in my room?

I put on my pants and make my way downstairs.

I can feel her. Close my eyes and track her scent, her movement... feel her emotions humming at the edge of my consciousness.

We've always had a connection, Buffy and I. Part instinctive awareness of natural enemies, part electric tie of love and desire. Our Destinies' wandering paths forever side by side, crossing now and again, but never quite managing to meet. And now...

Now she's as linked to me as I once was her... our bond finally complete. She is my Mate in every way, and that profound copula between us opens her to me absolutely.

She is filled with a bewildering storm of emotion: love, loyalty, fear... contentment and righteous anger. I find her in my office, pulling weapons from the cabinet, and stuffing them into my leather duffel.

Buffy is fully focused on her task, so that her essence acknowledges my approach, but her consciousness doesn't shift at all. She is, above and beyond all else, a warrior -- perhaps *the* warrior -- and the battle ahead consumes her every thought, blocking out even her Mate.

I know where she's going. I don't want to know, but again... all of her flows through me, and she can hide nothing, nor can I hide from what's about to happen.

I find myself torn once more between pride and sorrow... terror and love. Guilt that she is once again forced to take on my burdens, and intellectual knowledge that this is for the best.

Fear of what will happen when she finds them. Fear for her life. And even some for theirs. Those of my line who my Mate is forced to hunt because I can't kill them.

"You're going out?"

It's such an idiotic question, I can hardly believe I've said it aloud. But I have to do something... part of me wants so much to stop her. Keep her here, with me. Take her back upstairs and make love to her until we both forget what she has to do. I don't want her to get hurt. I want to crawl away and pretend this isn't happening. Go back to bed and huddle between them... willing reality to disappear.

Then, maybe, the past six months will vanish, and turn out to be nothing but part sweet dream, and part night terror.

But either way, I have to say something.

She stops, takes a deep, steadying breath, and turns around. I know that look in her eye. Fierce determination. Protectiveness. Slayer on duty. My Mate on a quest for revenge.

Buffy shrugs nonchalantly, but ends up looking tense.

"I have something I have to do," she tells me vaguely, like she's on her way to pick up milk at the corner store.

I nod. None of the things in my head are appropriate to tell her. Hell... I don't think many of them are appropriate to *feel*.

She steps slowly toward me, looking up into my eyes, and lays her tiny hands flat against my chest. Her touch is like lightning striking, and I feel the electricity hum through my body. I close my eyes against the power of it.

"I love you, Angel," she murmurs.

Now it's my turn to take a deep breath. Those three words are filled to the breaking point with meaning -- memories and thank you's, I'm glad you're okay's and last night was beautiful. I'm sorry that I have to do this, and I have to do this... their literal meaning...

And the possibility of our last farewell. I grab her and crush her to me, consumed by the echoes of my own fear, doubt, and love.

I want to stop her. I want to go with her. But I know that I can do neither.

"I love you, too, Buffy... so much." I'm surprised that my voice is so soft and steady... the words sound like a sob in my soul.

We stand there like that for a hundred pounding heartbeats... bodies and hearts pressed together and melding... clinging. My mind crying hysterically, 'Don't go! Don't do this!'

But I hold her... memorize this moment... and say nothing.

Buffy finally pulls away, and graces me with a smile... that beautiful smile that's etched so deeply into the very essence of my being. The one that warms me more than even the sun ever could.

"I'll be back soon," she promises, and stands on tiptoe to kiss me. It's meant to be soft... quick... a "see you in a little while"... but I pull her back to me once more and plunge into her mouth... will her to live, to survive, to come back to me. I need her so much... so much more than I ever have before... and I owe her even more than that.

("It's not enough time!")

Every moment that we've known one another washes through me like a storm... agony and ecstasy, passion and pain... all our hopes and dreams burning like wildfire in our blood. The blood we now share... that guarantees that I will feel it when her time comes...

She ends the embrace, pulling away because she knows that I won't. Never taking her eyes from mine, she picks up the bag, and backs away.

(stop her! don't let her go! make her stay!)

"Buffy..."

She pauses. "Yeah?"

(i beg you... stay with me. forget your duty. forget your destiny. please. don't do what you have to do. i need you. i love you. i can't let you do this.)

(no. this is the way it was meant to be. this is who she is.)

For a moment, I stand there and look at her... remember the child she once was, and love the woman she's become.

"Do me a favor?"

A hint of that sunshine smile returns. "Anything."

"Call the others. Don't go alone."

Buffy gives me a look like she might give her mother -- reminding me that she's a big Slayer and is perfectly capable of taking care of herself. I know this... and I don't care.

She doesn't respond. She simply winks at me, turns, and walks out.

The echo of the front door closing behind her is like a stake in my heart. The pain weighs heavy, pushing me down, and I'm forced to sit.

"Please be safe," I whisper to no one.

* * *

Time crawls while she is gone. I pass those endless hours with menial tasks: taking a shower, cleaning, feeding, straightening my office. Finally, there is nothing left to do but wait. I sit down at my desk once more to read, but mostly I stare at the same page and let my attention remain focused on my Center... on the energies of my Blood family that tingle there. Four tiny lights, each a different color and timbre of humming: Darla... Drusilla... Spike... and Buffy. Like a monitor, I watch them, and wait to see if any go out.

One flares, and I look up to watch him enter, his eyes down as though he's embarrassed to be here... or like a fledgling about to do something that might get him flogged.

It hurts me now more than ever, to see him look like that... like a puppy abused so badly that it can no longer separate the pain and terror from the joy of simple, everyday interaction. Blind, unhealthy devotion. I hate it. And I hate myself for engendering it in him.

Of course, Spike could simply be embarrassed, and I'm overthinking again. Projecting my own guilt on those around me.

I want desperately to grab him... hold him... shower him with as much tenderness as I once did agony.

But I think the best thing I can do is to let him proceed at his own pace... do whatever he needs to in his own way, and let him keep his dignity by playing it cool.

I can do that. It's simple, really... allow some of the demon's detachment and attitude in to subdue the more sentimental instincts of my soul.

The realization brings my speeding thoughts to a halt.

Integration. Could that be the solution to my problems? Finding a balance between demon, man, and soul that allows the best of each to surface, while leaving behind the worst? Could it really be so simple?

I don't have time to consider the idea fully, as Spike clears his throat, signaling the commencement of whatever it is he's about to say.

I force my gaze to rise slowly from my unread book to light on him, as if I don't have any feeling one way or another about his presence. I wonder, though, if I can effectively keep my pure adoration of him from my eyes. The gratitude for his interruption... indeed, his very existence.

He leans casually in the doorway, fiddling an unlit cigarette between his long, graceful fingers, his eyes shifting nervously around the room, belying the look of disinterest he's trained on his features.

"So... Slayer finally figure out you're a boring wanker and run off?"

I watch him twist the cigarette from finger to finger, and wonder how I should respond. I can't very well tell him where she's gone. Not that he could stop her, any more than I could, but... nonetheless. Besides, for all I know, he's already as aware of Buffy's intentions as I am, and he's simply asking me to help him deny it.

"She needed to get out for a while," I explain. It's not a lie, exactly. I'm just omitting painful facts, like I'm protecting a small child from a horrible truth that he doesn't need to know.

Which, I guess, I am. If anything happens, he'll find out soon enough.

Spike nods and moves the rest of the way into the room, settling down in the chair across the desk from me. He swallows stiffly, staring at the blotter like there's a script written on it that will direct him through whatever he's about to say.

"Listen, Angel... I've been doing some thinking," he begins.

"I thought I smelled smoke," I tease.

His eyes shoot up, and for a moment, they burn with anger. But then... he smiles... full-faced... rare. My boy's stunning grin. My chest clenches tight with the raw beauty of it.

"Fuck you, tosser," he shoots back.

I can't help but smile at him in return.

"So, you've been thinking..." I remind him.

He takes a deep breath. "Yeah. You know... 'bout what I'm gonna do next and all. Plush life in Sunnydale's well and good... helpin' out the idiot Scooby Gang, kicking ass, shagging Harmony and whatnot..."

I blink. "You're... sleeping with... Harmony? *Cordelia's* friend, Harmony?"

Spike rolls his eyes. "She's a vampire, now. Fancy's herself the Slayer's arch-nemesis, the stupid bint."

I am, quite frankly, shocked. Does Cordelia know this? Vampire or no, I still find it hard to believe that Spike is having an affair with...

Who am I kidding? No, I'm not.

"Point is," he continues, "All that's nice, but... I'm fairly bored of it. Need a change of scenery, you know?"

Ah. I think I know where he's going with this. I can't say I'm not surprised... in fact, I'm quite stunned by the idea. But...joyfully so. Thinking about the possibility of having Will with me again fills me with a soothing, warm sensation that's utterly foreign... and yet, completely familiar.

(a family again, when the others are gone.)

"I see," I respond, keeping my suddenly raging emotions close to the chest. "And... where do you think you'll go?"

He doesn't raise his head, but his eyes meet mine from beneath his brow. Again, so like a small boy, about to ask for a cookie before dinnertime.  
I have to work to suppress yet another smile. I had no idea there were so many left inside me.

"Well... I figure... maybe... I could stay here. With you."

His gaze immediately ticks back to the desktop. Since he's no longer looking, I let my smile break free. I can't help it. I love this creature. I've loved him for a hundred and thirty years, whether I've been willing or able to admit it or not. Being close to him again satisfies me in a way that's difficult to put words to. Spike touches a part of myself that I've so long avoided... been terrified of, actually, because it's had no release but the violence of my nightly battles against its brethren. Anything else from my demon nature is too frightening and dangerous, too out of control, to deal with. But with him... making love to him, playing pack politics ... the renewal of our Sire/Childe bond...

I realize with a start that, to some degree, the demon is sated. I don't feel that constant struggle to keep it tethered the way I've had to since regaining my soul. Where there is usually burning, black rage boiling beneath my skin, I feel... some measure of peace, at last.

Who would have thought?

"With me," I parrot, hardly able to keep the shivering power of my epiphany from my voice.

"What, are you deaf? Yeah, with you," he says, and instantly looks more comfortable. Fighting with and insulting me are skills he has honed to a fine art, and I'm sure to use them takes some of the sting out of the way he's putting his magnificent pride on the line.

I pretend to take some time to think about it. Hell, my decision was already made the moment I woke from my quasi-coma and realized that he was there beside me. And it's only grown every moment since.

But he doesn't know that, and so he starts using logic to support the case he thinks he needs to make to convince me.

"I figure -- there's a ton more demon ass for me to kick in this city than anywhere else, including the Hellmouth. You've got shitloads of room, here, and cable, which I can't very well get wired into the crypt... And seeing as how you nearly drove yourself into the nuthouse, seems to me you need a full-time babysitter."

I let him ramble on... about my plentiful blood supply, how he hates the memories and general attitude of "SunnyHole", how he can't show his face in any of the bars there anymore without getting his ass kicked... All the while I sit and listen to what he's not saying. It's that which makes me want to grab him and kiss him silly.

He wants to be with me. He wants to stay with his Sire... take his place at my side, and be a family again. I could weep with the joy of it.

Finally, his diatribe comes to an end, and he sits back in the chair, sticking the still unlit Marlboro in his mouth.

"So? Whatdya say? I beat demon ass for you, keep you shagged on a fairly regular basis, and you keep me in blood, smokes, and the WB. Sound fair?"

(sounds fair near to Heaven, my boy...)

"All right," I say, and rise from my seat, clasping my hands behind my back and circle to desk to pace before him. "If I say yes -- and I haven't, yet -- there would have to be some ground rules."

I need to take the initiative, here. Get control of what's going on inside me.

He snorts and mutters, "Big bloody surprise, there."

I stop and cock an eyebrow at him.

"Fine. Fucking ground rules. Whatever," he gripes.

Again, I hold back the urge to smile. I need to do this right. If he's going to stay, I'm going to have to do a fair amount of Mastering, and I'm pretty rusty on that.

"Good. One: no bringing home strange demons. No bringing home *any* demons, for *any* reason -- no poker games, no one-night-stands, no torture sessions in my basement. Two: you can smoke in your room, outside, or in the cellar, and that's *it*. Three: you *will* clean up after yourself. That includes the kitchen, your laundry, and your empty beer bottles. Four: you will *not* harass my friends," (if I have any left), "Five: If I ask you to help me on a case, you will do so with a *minimum* of lip. You will not frighten, tease, or mock clients. You will not make fun of the way I dress, what I do, read, say, or believe. You will not make fun of my hair. You will not make nasty comments about my sexual orientation in front of others. You will not *touch* any of my belongings without *express* permission from me. And finally, I reserve the right to change or add to these rules at any time that I see fit, and if I have to warn you more than twice about any one of them, you will find yourself right back out on the street. At high noon. Are we clear? Is there anything I just said that you didn't understand?"

I really want to laugh as I lecture him. The completely offended and disgusted look on Spike's face is priceless, and I know full well that we'll be spending half our time together fighting over the exact things I've just mentioned. I remember what sharing a home with Spike means.

And I can hardly wait.

I've never given my Childe nearly enough credit. He may be insufferably rude, ill mannered, undisciplined, impetuous, and essentially a complete bastard, but he is *smart*. Insightful. Straightforward and genuine like no one else I've known in my life. He could be an asset in ways that I haven't yet imagined, now that we're not on the opposite end of a crowbar, stake, two-by-four or red-hot pokers...

"Well?" I ask when he doesn't say anything in response to my commandments.

He looks down at my shoes, his face scrunched in angry thought. I don't know if he's rifling through his extensive mental filing cabinet of insults, or if he's actually giving consideration to what I've said.

At last, he looks up.

"You're a big, fat, pompous, self-righteous asshole," he informs me.

I laugh. Mirth bubbles up, washes through me, and bursts out, doubling me over. I laugh until it hurts, there are tears in my eyes, and my stomach cramps painfully.

Spike stares at me like I've gone insane... again.

Maybe I have. After all, I'm about to agree to let my soulless, id-driven vampire Childe move into my home. I've shared my Mate with him. I made love with both of them, when that sort of connection was supposed to be forbidden me. I've retaken my place as his Master. All things that would have been unthinkable only a few short weeks ago.

How quickly and completely things can change...

Perhaps I am crazy. But... this is a completely new and different madness than any I'm familiar with -- the insanity of doing the right thing at last, and actually feeling *good* about it.

"So, is that a yes?" I query when I finally regain control enough to speak.

Spike stands up. For a moment, I think he's going to tell me to stick my rules up my arse and stomp out.

Instead, he steps toward me. Stands inches away, so that we are almost nose to nose...

And he kisses me. Long, slow, and with a tenderness that is so shocking, I forget to close my eyes.

He gives me that little boy grin again as he pulls away.

"No promises, mate," he says, and walks out.

I stand there for a moment when he's gone, stunned. Then the smile slips back across my lips, which still tingle from his gentle kiss.

His answer is pretty much what I expected, with the exception of that.

Still smiling to myself, I sit back down, reclaim my book, and finally read the poem I've been staring at for the past hour or more.

*We live in secret cities  
And we travel unmapped roads.

We speak words between us that we recognize  
But which cannot be looked up.  
They are our words.  
They come from very far inside our mouths.

You and I, we are the secret citizens of the city  
Inside us, and inside us

There go all the cars we have driven  
And seen, there are all the people

We know and have known, there  
Are all the places that are

But which used to be as well. This is where  
They went. They did not disappear.

We each take a piece  
Through the eye and through the ear.

It's loud inside us, in there, and when we speak  
In the outside world

We have to hope that some of that sound  
Does not come out, that an arm

Not reach out  
In place of the tongue.*

Funny. Fate touches us like that sometimes, doesn't it? Sends our past... our future... tearing out with a roar that brings our neat little worlds crumbling down, and more often than not, builds another -- hopefully better, stronger one -- in its place.

I wonder what it will be like, sharing my unlife with Will again. I wonder what will happen when I call Cordelia later. I wonder if my Sire and youngest Childe will soon be dust. I wonder what will happen between Buffy and I.

The Oracles once told me, "When one door closes, another opens." And I know for a fact this is true. I also know that sometimes, those old doors can open again, and all the things that we know, feel, and are that we have forgotten, can come back to reinforce us where we are weak or broken. Help us to learn, grow and change where brand-new experiences cannot.

Yes, it is loud inside us. But sometimes... sometimes we need the arm to reach out in place of the tongue... to shake us from the stupor of stagnation and habit. To caress our pains... repair our damage. Sometimes the arm can heal and teach where all else has failed.

I think maybe it's time to stop letting my ghosts haunt me... torment me...

And really listen to what they have to say.

Four lights still burn brightly at the axis of my being. I train my focus on them once more, and pick up the phone.

Buffy will be all right. We all will. There is a point to everything we've lived through, and I in no way believe that it will come to a crescendo today.

But it's a start.

"Cordelia? It's Angel. I'd like to talk to you, if you're not busy."


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buffy does her duty... and finds out it's not exactly what she expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (thoughts look like this) ("Remembered voices look like this")

(kill her.)

It's a good thing that driving is an automatic sort of activity, because there is so much going on inside of me, I couldn't possibly spend an ounce of energy thinking about gas-break-go-stop- red-green-finger- gas-break-don't-hit-the-guy-in-the-crosswalk.

(rip her head off with my bare hands. twist. yank. whoosh.)

I'm on fire. That's the only way I can think to describe it. I may not be stupid, but I've never been the best student, either. At least not where school is concerned. All that sitting and listening and concentrating on  
things that don't really matter when you know that the world is full of monsters, and that when the sun sets and the building is empty, the gates of Hell will open up and bring the shadows to life. Hard to concentrate on the  
Declaration of Independence or parabolas or vocabulary in the face of that, you know?

Anyway, my point is, I don't have the right words to describe what's going on inside of me. Maybe there aren't any.

It's full daylight when I finally tear myself from Angel's arms and walk out of Angel's hotel, onto Angel's streets, into Angel's city to hunt down and kill Angel's family.

Although... I guess they're sort of my family now, too, aren't they? I have their blood rushing through my veins the same as his and Spike's.

I don't know the vampire rules for this, but I damn well know the Slayer rules. You cross the line -- you mess with my family, and you're history. Pure and simple.

(kill her. i'm going to fucking kill her. if i could kill her twice, i would.)

I wonder what it will feel like to dust them, now that I'm a part of their Bloodline. Some part of me is really scared. What if, when they die, it hurts us? I'm not so worried about myself. I don't have any loyalties to those vampire bitches, as far as I'm concerned, blood or no.

But unlike Angel and Spike, I didn't live with them, hunt and screw and slaughter with them for a hundred years... so maybe I'm not in the best position to judge.

It doesn't matter. They're going to die for what they did to Angel. My Angel -- so good-hearted, no matter what he's done, or what he thinks of himself. Since I've known him, he's always tried his best to do the right thing, to be compassionate, to reach out and help...and she is going to *pay* for punishing him for that.

I'm completely different today than I was yesterday. I've shed my Buffy skin, and all that's left is this wild *animal*. Pure Slayer. A lot like last year, when we called the Primal... just instinct. Bloodlust. But now, even more than that. I'm a third being, because I'm them, too. I am the Mate of Eternity. The Lover of both God and Trickster. I am loyalty and passion, blood and fury, and all that's in me now is appetite. Not for the bodies of the two vampires I've left behind in our bed (though there is *definitely* that). Not for food, but craving for the hunt, just like Dracula said. Driven, single-minded desire... to look into that whore's eyes and smile as I watch her crumble into dust, again and finally. I even have a couple of really snappy farewell lines planned for her.

I am destruction walking, and everybody better stay the *fuck* out of my way, or they're going down, too.

I didn't want to see Angel before I left. I didn't want that soft moment of goodbye, when our souls opened up automatically to one another, and he took me in his strong arms, begging me not to go with a kiss that broke me down into Buffy again. I can't go there. Not right now... I can't think about the agony in his loving chocolate eyes or the frown on his soft lips... his big hands clinging to me, holding me in my human skin.

Right now, I don't want to be his beloved. I don't want to be the woman I see reflected in those eyes. If I survive this, there will be plenty of time for that, later. Time to relive the glory of sighs and tangled flesh, him crying my name as he sunk into my body and filled me so completely with his love and devotion, and all the things about myself that I can never see. The way he held me and murmured to me, and let me remember all the beauty I  
thought I'd forgotten. The way he made me hope again...

No. Later. Now, I am Final Death, and that's all. I need something else from Angel's Blood Gift... What lies beneath, under his pain, his passion, his devotion and the call of the soul.

I need the demon. I need the inherent power to incite terror. To wreak havoc. To destroy. Annihilate, and never fear or regret. It's an easy way to live, he once told me... no conscience... no remorse... and that's  
exactly who I need to be right now.

Soulless.

So I concentrate on the memory of fangs tearing flesh... the taste and scent of blood flowing. The feral music of snarls, howls, and roars. The silver of moonlight glinting off Spike and Angel's pale skin as they... I don't know... rutted, I guess? The cold of the grave sleeping in my arms.

I love them. They love me. I cherish them both down to my core, but... whatever our human feelings, they are still devastation incarnate. I let that knowledge fill me as I drive toward Silver Lake.

Driving a car just seems... wrong, somehow. Part of the other Buffy, who still lies sleeping, nestled between the large, cool, comforting forms of her mate and his Childe in the dark. Animals don't drive, do they? Predators walk. Stalk their prey on silent feet.

Los Angeles is a sprawling city, and it takes a while to get to Cordelia's apartment. As I knock on the door (I was only here a few days ago, and yet, everything feels so different), I hope that she won't want to talk. Won't  
invite me in or ask to come along or try to stop me, because these are things -- human things -- that I just don't have the time or energy for.

I'm still starving, and I realize now what that hunger means... it's sharp, today, where it was dull and vague last night. I didn't understand it, then... but drinking them taught me. To feed that hunger means to kill. To dispense the justice that is my Calling, and now my Duty as Mate, too. Darla started this. She put this pain in Angel 250 years ago, and he passed it on to Spike. This poison... this wasting disease. She tormented Angel  
without mercy, without regard for what they once shared or who he'd become, and today...

Today she'll regret it... for about two seconds before her ashes blow away in the breeze.

Cordy's warm greeting freezes the moment she opens the door. Her eyes go wide, bewildered by how I must look, and she takes a defensive step back.

I smell her fear, and it's all I can do not to smile. Reach out and grab her... gulp down the intoxicating, electrifying scent of it from her warm, tanned skin.

Hm. Guess maybe I can see some of the attraction in being a vampire after all, because Fight or Flight smells... Damn delicious. Like pancakes and sausage, actually. I'm almost drooling.

We stare at each other for a long time. A thousand questions flash in her rich brown eyes, but she doesn't voice a single one. Instead, she hands me a slip of paper. I look down at it, and try to remember how to read. An address.

"Angel called."

I blink at her. Human speech sounds funny. And his name... it puts a pinprick in my perfect rage, and all the Death starts leaking out.

Damn it.

"Oh yeah?" I respond, and feel myself begin to soften again. A flash of his eyes... pain, love and joy. His arms and his lips. Tears. His body against mine...

"He's worried about you." She nods toward the stake in my hand... I didn't even realize I had pulled it from the waistband of my jeans. "About this. He doesn't want you to go alone."

He doesn't want me to go at all. I know that, even if he didn't tell me. But I don't say it. I don't want to explain anything. I don't want to *chat*. I want to *kill*. Feel dust on my skin and know that I've finally done something meaningful for him. Repaid just one small fraction of everything that he's given me. All the history, the comfort, the love... the lessons and hope for the future I feel pounding in my veins.

So I just stare at her, and say nothing.

"You know, he's right," she goes on, "They'll kill you, and how do you think *that* will make him feel?"

My rage leaks faster. I clutch at it... fight to keep the Death in. I squint at her, in anger more than anything, and realize that I can *see* her frustration and worry, wavering around her like an aura.

Cool.

"I have to do this," I tell her. "It's my Duty." It sounds stupid and right all at once on my lips. My Duty. Mate. Slayer. Chosen One.

She snorts and rolls her eyes in that uniquely Cordy way that's made me want to slap her face off a couple million times since the day we met. Now being one of them.

"Oh, *please*. You can do your Duty just as easily with me and Gunn along."

Gunn steps up behind her, tall and dark and... damn cute, now that I take a second to think about it. Big, sweet brown eyes, and he smells like... anger and relief all at once. And arousal. His energy snakes from his aura and creeps protectively around Cordy.

Hm. I wonder if she knows about that.

"Fine," I finally manage, "You can come. But stay out of my way. Watch my back if you have to, but they are *mine*. Okay?"

Wow. I sound harsh even to me.

"Fine by me," Cordy replies, and reaches down, snatching up a crossbow she's left leaning against the foyer wall. She slings a strap packed with bolts over her shoulder, and stands there looking like Rambo Barbie or something. "But if it comes to it... Lindsey's *mine*."

I shrug. I don't know who Lindsey is, but I do know that I'm glad I'm not him.

"Let's hit it," Gunn says, twirling this monstrous axe that makes Angel's look like a little firewood-splitter.

I'm sort of impressed. For someone who insists he doesn't do well with people, Angel inspires an awful lot of loyalty in those around him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was a bad idea to drive. Especially to just be a passenger. All I can do is press my face against the glass of Gunn's pick-up as we crawl through Saturday morning traffic.

Sitting still, leaning, hypnotized by the cars and people and buildings sliding by leaves me way too much time to think...

And to listen to the sweet song of Angel's blood in my veins. The echo of my dream of his demon family, and the sickening cold-hungry sensation of being in Darla's skin. Thinking about what it all *means*.

I can't even wrap my mind around the idea of one hundred and fifty years together on top of the Blood Tie. I wonder -- can she feel them as clearly, as completely, as I can? Can she smell Angel's alternating worry and love as he waits, just looking at Spike? Can she feel Spike's confusion and continuing fruitless struggle against the fate we sealed in Angel's bed last night?

She must. Darla's been a part of this for so much longer than I have, and I can feel everyone of those things, like a surround-sound, three-dimensional psychic scratch and sniff in my head and heart.

Does she love him? Did she ever? Does she know that I'm coming for her? That my fingers itch to plunge Mr. Pointy into her breast and wipe her completely from Angel's memory?

You're damn right, I'm jealous. This rage... I'm not really certain how much of it is really righteous Slayer-anger, and how much is wanting her never to have existed at all.

I don't know. But thinking about it changes something about my anger, and I start to remember...

The concern in Angelus' soulless eyes... how he called me "love", and there was genuine tenderness in his touch.

How Angel sobbed as he told me what the Dead Lawyers did to her. All that he had sacrificed to help her... the Trials... And how he felt like he had accomplished something at last when he saw humanity reborn in her eyes. That he doesn't believe the essence of that could truly disappear with her soul. How he loved her, for that single moment.

I remember real pain in Angel's voice when he talked about killing her the first time... to save me. I remember he and Spike fighting about killing them. There's so much pain... an intensity I can barely understand, wrapped up in all of their relationships.

I never really believed that demons could love... but now?

All of a sudden, I don't feel like such a hunter anymore. I don't know what I feel, honestly. What I have to do isn't clear. What's right has become all fuzzy and gray, and the lines between good and evil that I thought I knew like the backs of my hands have just vanished...

Should I even be doing this? Do I have the right?

"Well, ladies... welcome to the lovely Regency Arms... Uptown suites for $1500/month and up," Gunn announces, pulling the truck over.

Too late, I guess. I look in the direction they're looking... up at a tower of glass and steel, and one of those fancy awnings, complete with doorman.

"Angel said Darla had to have a view," Cordy grumbles.

I just look at that mountain of ugly building, and think... My Destiny is in there somewhere, hiding from the sun. A crossroads of what I am, and what my lovers are, and what happens next. A decision to be made that will change us all forever.

We climb out of the truck and sneak around the back of the building, where there's a nice, convenient service entrance. Cordelia drops down into a crouch and credit cards the door like she was born to break and enter. Talk about irony. Queen C the criminal is even weirder than Queen C the foot soldier. But... I guess she's equally good at both, because in a moment, we 're in, and creeping up flight after flight of dull gray concrete fire escape stairs.

My mind is racing as fast as my heart, and by instinct, I guess, I reach out with my blood to touch Spike and Angel. They're both worried... frustrated. They're trying to comfort one another, I think... are they drinking? Fighting? I can't quite tell... but mostly, they're afraid, and trying to pretend that they're not. Trying to distract each other.

Gunn cuts the wire to the 14th floor door alarm, and now we're standing in a plush hallway with real plants and soft lighting. He nods to the last door on the right.

Time's up.

1405\. Gold letters on cream-colored wood. The moment of truth. I am the Slayer. I am the Alpha's Mate, and it's time for me to do my Duty... right now. Right here. What I was born to do.

I kick in the door, relishing the sound of hardwood splintering, the smell of adrenaline and shock like a drug in the climate controlled air. The three of us rush forward. Gunn puts a guy (who I guess must be Lindsey) up against the wall with the axe handle to his throat. Cordelia trains the crossbow on Drusilla, who sits quietly at the dining room table. The vampire immediately starts crying, raving that I smell like Spike tears. The watery glare she lays on me is nothing short of withering.

"Killer of good children!" she spits, "Pied Piper thief of hearts! Sssssss!" She makes a little snake with her two fingers crooked, poking in my direction.

Guess I'm not the only one who's jealous around here. I can feel the cuckoobird's hatred pounding against my skin.

But I don't see Darla.

"Where is she?" I bark at the Lawyer.

He just gives me a snarky smile. The evil jerk's got the prettiest blue eyes. I want to poke them out of his smirking head.

Fucking bastard. I'm tempted to tell Cordy to use that crossbow on him. >From what I've heard, he deserves it. And by her distinctive Dior-Rage scent, I can tell she's thinking seriously about the very same thing.

One more Dead Lawyer more or less? Who cares?

"Looking for me, Buffy?"

When I spin to face her, it feels like slow motion...like I'm standing in pudding or something. Darla stands in the far doorway, all elegance and perfect fucking creamy white skin, sweet smile, and crystal clear blue eyes.  
She smells like Angel. Or maybe... he smells like her. I grip my stake so hard, the handle draws blood. I don't think I've ever felt hatred like this before in my life. I think I might have just hissed.

She smells my blood, of course. Glances down and arches one perfectly plucked eyebrow at me.

"Well...haven't we been a busy little Slayer?" She takes a step into the room, stalking toward me, a two-legged feline in a floor-length gown of shimmering black silk. "Been playing big girl games with my Mate and his whelp, have you? Did he let you drink him? How very romantic... Guess that sort of makes you *kin*, now, doesn't it?" She says 'kin' like it's a nasty disease, and I'm the cause.

Three jealous vampire-lovers, all in one fancy apartment. Great.

Drusilla whines, then starts to cry again. "My Spike... she's drowned my Angel, and now my Spike too in her light!"

This is like being in a really bizarre movie -- some cross between "Being John Malcovic", "The Godfather", and maybe a pinch of "Lethal Weapon" and something by Wes Craven thrown in for creep value.

I just stand there and stare at my lover's Sire. I knew she was back... that the Dead Lawyers (and the not-so-dead one up against the wall behind me) had reconstituted her ashes like powdered milk, and made... this. I knew that she'd been with Angel... violated him... fucked with his body and mind and goddamn it, his *soul*. I knew all of this coming in here, but... actually seeing her... smelling her... feeling her even more acutely than when I dreamed I *was* her.

It's like somebody hit the "off" switch in my brain. I can't move. I can't speak. I feel the rage pounding in my blood, and that blood dripping down the palm of my hand, and wonder...

Am I about to die? Is this the Dance Spike told me about? Did I really come here to meet my end, because I'm tired of all the struggle? Is this where I've been heading since I was Called? Is my last act to take my revenge for the man that I love?

No. I came here to do what a Slayer has to do. What the Master's Chosen is sworn to do when the Law has been violated. That's all. Nothing more profound than dust.

But I still can't move a muscle.

Darla takes another step toward me.

"Buffy?" Cordy's warning voice comes from behind me.

"Sing sing with the bees!" Drusilla sobs, "When you fell in the well, you didn't know there was more than kittens down there, did you? Black snakes and tiny flames! Shhhhhh... Bad dogs and good girls make sour milk..."

Darla's smile is frigid. Her hatred stinks like moldy soil, and her jealousy and rage hover around the outline of her body like some weird green ghost.

I'm going to puke. I've got that same lurching shiver in my stomach that I had the night the Master killed me... that feeling that maybe I miscalculated... maybe there was some detail I missed, and now everyone is going to pay for it.

"Will you KILL HER ALREADY?" Cordy yelps.

"What's wrong with her?" Gunn asks.

"Guess little Miss One Girl in All the World wasn't quite as ready for this as she thought," the Not-So-Dead Lawyer quips.

I hear them, but it's as though they're in another building... or another time zone. There's nothing left in that moment but Darla and I as she slinks closer. Suddenly, I'm less afraid, and more... I don't know... fascinated, I guess. She really is beautiful... soft and fair like a china doll... it reminds me what beautiful packages evil can come in.

I'm not shaking anymore. Not sick to my stomach. All that animal rage I clutched tight to earlier is gone, too. I'm empty... waiting... I watch her come like a hunter waiting for his target to wander into his sites. Just a second more, Darla... just a few steps...

But something happens as she moves toward me. The light in the room fades to a black that's deeper than night... my awareness shifts, my consciousness starts to sink, and I feel a hum of voices in my blood... and her whisper, as the world falls away:

"He belongs to me..."  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A clammy Irish night... a hot, crowded pub... a nothingness inside me that my earlier hunt doesn't fill.

(bored. will all eternity be so dry?)

A fight breaks out nearby. Men in breeches and rough cotton shirts throwing punches... throwing flagons of ale... throwing one another. Other patrons roll their eyes and step away. I sip my tea and try not to yawn.

(a brawl...how very droll. god, I hate Ireland.)

A huge, strapping lad with a bloody lip and a wild grin catches my eye as he tosses his opponent over the tables like a sack of flour, then takes a long drink from his stein. Now *that* is the most interesting thing I think I've seen in this filthy, backward country. His energy is fierce, crackling around him like an aura of lightning... he's bored and dissatisfied with his life, as much as I. I can smell it on him. His battle here is as much for entertainment as for victory. I can't recall ever seeing a human look quite so... alive before.

(my...goodness. he certainly is fine.)

I catch the wench's attention as she passes.

"Who is *he*?"

(an angel...)

I've never given much thought about Making a Mate. Too much trouble, really, to have to consider another's well-being. And certainly, my Master wouldn't approve of any whelp I brought to the fold as my lover. I doubt the poor lad would last long in my Maker's clutches.

But this boy...

"He's magnificent."

And he is. Like savage poetry in motion. The way he moves... so large, and yet so graceful. Good-naturedly vicious -- the violence amuses him. He's angry... hungry... alone...

"Oh, yah. God's gift, that one..."  
"Really. I've never known God to be so generous."

(i want him.)

Maybe it's time. This boy has a need boiling under his skin... a desperate desire to be--to become--and I can give it to him. A Mate to share the hunt... see the world... watch eternity pass by my side.

(never be alone again...)

I catch his gaze... his joyous, lecherous leer like a bolt of lightning to my unbeating heart.

And, I admit, to a place far lower than that.

I toss the serving girl an extra silver as I depart. She deserves some reward, to be certain, for what she's given me...

I beckon the boy come with my eyes. A simple flutter of lashes, like magick. Such simple creatures, human men.

(he'll come.)

And after tonight, he will be so much more...

His blood is sweet... rich. His dying gasp exultant. The enthusiasm with which he drinks from my breast nearly drives me to orgasm, standing there in that dingy alley.

My Mate... at last. How long I've waited for you. Have I ever, in 150 years, felt so alive? Like his passion infuses me with a new and never-dreamed of mana.

Time together passes like a rush of wind... desire, pain... blood and tears. Five years. Gods marching over the world. Hunters. Predators supreme. Nights of flesh and love and death, more fabulous than anything I could have dreamed.

Ten years. Twenty. My passionate boy... his fire... his lust for the hunt only grows.

Fifty years. A human lifetime, and still, it is only him whom I desire. A century. Our lives so entwined that it is difficult, even when we are separated, to tell where one of us ends and the other begins.

(you and I are one...)

The hundredth anniversary of his Making... still a fresh memory on my skin. He'd brought a German Countess with whom he'd been dallying for some days as a gift for me. The lust in her eyes is delicious... sparkling sapphire evidence that my Angelus is a maestro of the art of seduction... that she should be so taken by his carefully woven illusion of love... so eager to meet her doom. Her arousal smells sweet, like jasmine and spice.

And when my darling at last looks to me, I see... he is no longer a whelp. He is fully my Mate... a Master in his own right, now, and my pride in making it so swells my dead heart.

Only for him. He is Death, exquisite. Tall and majestic, splendid in his blooming puissance. A far more powerful manifestation of all I ever wished him to be than my wildest imaginings. More demon than I ever dreamed. The core of me... the very flesh of which I am made.

My eternity.

He lights candles... casts the room in a golden glow. Sits the woman down in a chair and comes toward me. Look at her... how obediently she sits, with her fine hands clutched daintily in her lap... the perfect little lamb. I can hardly keep my eyes from her, she is so delicious.

But he is moving toward me, his dark eyes ablaze with... ah, Gods, everything. My second... the other half of me. My heart's shadow.

The violence with which he tears my clothes from my body leaves me shivering, and he blankets me roughly with his smooth hands... his cool, devouring mouth.

Oh, how I've missed him these days past!

We fall to the floor and he drives into me... all that lonely time gone in a single, deep, claiming thrust. When he takes me, I am not the Dam... not the Maker... I am the Claimed. I am his female, his lover, an extension of his flesh, and nothing more. I wrap myself around him, lose myself in him, and it is mere moments before I reach my peak, screaming his name as it howls in my blood -- our shared essence.

Angelus pulls the girl from the chair, crushes her between us, and we work as one -- the hunting pair, to bring the kill to her own pleasure before we take her... lips and fingers and tongues... she whimpers and moans, cries out, and yes... the death he brings smells so sweet, laced with her passion.

He looks deep into my eyes -- I see infinity there... immortality that I created... Our gazes bind together as we sink our fangs into her soft throat, and drink. I can taste him in her... the magick he has been weaving to bring her here... my supreme hunter... my beloved... my darling boy. The girl screams in bliss as she dies... pain and ecstasy in the final moments of her pathetic existence. And he is the virtuoso of this beatific destruction.

My lover tosses the corpse away, mounts me and takes me again and again. He drinks me... promises me forever. I know it's a lie... that he will leave me like all fledglings leave, but for now I believe him. My precious Angelus... my beautiful Angel of Death, yes...

One hundred and ten years. Twenty. Forty. Then... in a moment, all our decades torn asunder... a Soul... a filthy abomination poisoning my boy. And that stupid whelp he calls his Most Favoured ate my last hope...

This... this pain. This emptiness... far worse than it ever would have been had I not made him... not shared this century with him. And these beasts... these weak, sniveling humans who are no more than meals to us, have brought him down. My beautiful monster...

I will show them no mercy.

And then... two years later, he returns, like a thousand nights crying and wishing made manifest and he tries... but my Angel is gone, and something else...something horrible... has taken his place. Suddenly, my eternity has vanished... what will become of me now, without him? The pain rends me from the inside. The horror of loss as he snatches our last hope from the table and flees me, into the night.

A hundred years alone. Other Mates taken, but none ever fills that space. A hundred lovers, and still, I am empty for him.

When we meet again, at the Mouth of Hell, he is as much human as not, and stinking of soul love and little girls with Sacred Destinies. She must die. Not because she is the Slayer, but because she has stolen my very *center*, and he...

The ultimate betrayal. Just a moment of searing agony... of shattering realization... but that pain no sharper, really, than the longing for him that has never been sated.

His name on my lips, and then nothing...

I wake from that utlimate void, and I feel... light and cold... Have I finally been cast into Hell? No, there are people and plans and a heartbeat. But him again... always him, everywhere. In everything. His strength and his beauty and his faith... his eyes wild with horror as I die yet again.  
Angel...

And I rise once more, the first thing I see is his face. But he is... still yet another creature... eyes now empty and cold, lost, and he locks the door on my and my Sire's feast. I slaughter one after another, and still think of him, my beautiful, vicious Angel... just one more chance. On more chance to fill this void inside me...I would do anything.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Light crackles around the edges of my consciousness... the power of her pain.

No. NO!

The rage explodes from somewhere inside of me that I've never touched before. I'm surrounded by a red haze. Bloodlust? I remember with a start why I'm here, and he is *not* her possession! He is Angel -- he belongs to himself, to the world, to his dreams of forgiveness and absolution. To the people who love him.

(she loves him.)

My muscles hum with the fury. I hear wails and cries... screams and moans... Two centuries of laughter and tears. It all collapses into a fiery ball of nothing at my center... and explodes into everything. I hear myself screaming from a million miles away as I kick Darla clear across the room, and she crashes into the bookshelves against the wall.

(he once loved her.)

All time and space is now, and the air is choked with memories. Love and loss. Pain and death and emptiness... hope and passion and the hunt. The black place where her soul once lived, and a confused young Irishman fell into her eyes.

("Darla... come to me...")  
("Yes, my Forever...")  
("Tell me that ye are mine.")  
("I am yours, Angelus... for all the nights of infinity.")

No.

("I wanted so badly for her to have the chance I was never given... The chance to do it all again...")

(some part of him loves her still.)

"He is MINE, little girl!" She spits, landing a fist like iron to my jaw, sending me reeling. "You may have his soul, but the rest of him will always be *MINE*!"

"NO!" It's not a word that comes from my mouth, but a roar, and I am not Buffy, not human, not even Slayer, but Death herself.

(she has to DIE.)

I don't know about the others... what they're doing or where they are, and I don't care. I remember the smell of dirt and sweat and alone. Primal vengeance. I feel Darla's cold flesh give under my fists. Feel her fall. Feel myself drop onto her chest, and make her bleed, raining fury and sorrow and Angel down on her.

She laughs at me through the blood on her lips. Laughs. But the sound is hollow, echoing in the magically charged air. The agony of it stops me dead.

I can hear her dead heart... her stolen blood... screaming his name. I can *feel* it. Her face laughs, but her center sobs, "You took my family."

Drusilla's wailing cuts the silence. Maybe she can hear it, too...

*You took my family!*

The air is still but that mourning cry. It breaks the magick, and time starts again.

Suddenly, I'm in my skin, kneeling on Darla's chest, her blood coating my fists and clothes. For a moment, I stare at it... her blood and mine mixed in the palm of my hand.

I look into her eyes and raise my stake.

(end this. kill her.)

Somewhere far way, I feel Angel catch his breath. Feel him shake uncontrollably for a moment, then collect himself. Steel himself for the pain he knows is coming. Force himself to be still. To accept.

Darla glares up at me, waiting. Trembling.

Spike freezes where he stands.

Drusilla whines, a long keening cry. "mmmmmMMMMMMMMM!"

(i can't.)

I stare down at Darla and see him in her eyes. For a heartbeat, I don't see her at all, but Angel... his eyes closed, a sweet smile on his lips right before I drove my sword through his belly and sent him to Hell. The horror of sacrifice. The agony of watching him vanish. Punishing him for things he didn't do, or even know were done.

All that pain.

I never think to do it, but my arm falls. The stake clatters across the wood floor.

"WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING, GIRL???" Gunn shouts.

I get to my feet, shaking so hard from the visions and the adrenaline, I can barely stand.

She lies there, looking up at me, her doll's features twisted in confusion and pain. I watch our blood drip down her fine cheek, like crimson tears, splashing to the floor.

(Angel's blood.)

She's not laughing anymore.

"Well?" she hisses, "What are you waiting for? End it!" It's so much more wounded... terrified... lonely than angry, I almost feel compassion for this thing that made my love.

"I'm not going to kill you," I inform her. Some part of me... Slayer-me, I guess, starts flipping out. This is not something the Chosen One is supposed to do.

(WHAT? KILL HER, IDIOT!)

"WHAT?" Cordy yelps.

"Let them go," I tell her and Gunn, ignoring those inner voices.

Darla and I continue staring at one another, and I can feel that empty, endless, hollow place where her memories of him live.

I know that void so well.

("Because you and I are one...")

She is my sister. In blood and in love, and in the essential, shadowed root of our power.

Darla struggles to sit up, her blue eyes wide. She leans back on her elbows as if she's waiting for me to ravish her. Those eyes are filled with fury... hatred... emptiness. I feel every one of her emotions as if they're my own. The core of her torn away. We're bound by that, as much as the Blood. He courses through our very essences... a storm that passes, but leaves the landscape changed forever. The lack of him is a fate far worse than death.

She feels it too.

"I'm not going to kill you," I tell her again.

Cordelia and Gunn gape at me, and Drusilla starts to sing...

"Rockabye and goodnight... angels watch over you, kitten."

Still, Darla and I remain with our eyes locked together.

Can you feel me, Darla? Can you feel what you've done to him? Do you care? Do you know that he is as far away from you know as he can ever be?

"If you so much as go *near* him again... you won't get another chance. I' ll *know*," I vow, and the magick of it rings in the air, "Leave here, and don't come back. Do you understand?"

Power... I'm flooded with it once more. Where does all it come from? Me? Her? Him? She swallows hard. She feels it. She knows with every ounce of her being that I mean what I say. I'm not the little girl she faced in the Bronze that night five years ago. I am something different, now. Something not even she knows how to face. I wonder...am I in her too?

I don't know. After another moment listening to her thoughts, I turn and leave the apartment without looking back.

It's enough. I think, maybe...reminding her of eternity without Angel is all the punishment required. More isn't worth the pain it would cause both he and Spike.

Besides, isn't she just a pawn, really? It's not her that started this part of the game.

It's the lawyers. I don't know much about them, yet...

But I'm willing to learn.  
~~~~~~~

Cordelia and Gunn say nothing as we drive back to her apartment. They say nothing as I get out of the truck. Finally, I stop, just outside the door, and look in at them both.

"He needs you," I tell them, "He might not really realize it yet, but he does. Please don't let him push you away."

Cordy slides over in the bench seat, dangling her legs out the door, and looks me in the eye.

"Why didn't you kill her? I don't get it."

I sigh. "I don't know if I do either." I'm fully back in Buffy-skin again, tired and drained, and all I want is to get back to the Hyperion, crawl into bed between Spike and Angel, and just sleep for a week. "I just couldn't."

She doesn't respond but for a snort.

"You know they'll kill again," Gun reminds me, "They're animals. *Evil* animals. It's what they do."

I know this. And the Slayer at the core of me is enraged that I'm ignoring it. But... I don't know, anymore, how much of me is really that hunter. How much of me is just a human woman -- the Fairy Princess--who wants her loved ones to be safe and happy. And how much is a vampire's Mate, now somehow ruled by laws that I don't even know, let alone understand.

"Maybe," I say, "But... we have other things to worry about than a couple of vampires, don't you think? Believe me... if she goes near Angel again... or Spike, for that matter, I *will* take care of her. If she shows up in Sunnydale, I'll kill her then, too. Let's just... focus on getting our lives back together, for now."

He doesn't need vengeance. He needs love. Support. Someone to smack him around when he lets his burdens get to be too much. Someone to hold him while he cries.

Cordy glances over her shoulder at Gunn, then back at me.

"Whatever," she grumbles, grabs her crossbow, and jumps out.  
They don't understand. Of course they don't. I'm not sure I do fully, either, except that... something inside of me looked into the same blue eyes that Angel looked into every day for a century and a half...

And saw myself.

I turn away from them. There's no way I can explain...

"Thanks for the back-up, guys," I say as an afterthought as I walk toward Spike's car.

Cordy catches up with me and stops me with a hand on my shoulder. When I look, I see that her face has softened again... not for me, I'm sure... she and I have never exactly been friends...

But there's something that we have in common, now... something besides the shared nightmare of the Sunnydale High Class of '99. More than just years of demons and fear.

It's the same tie that's run through all the events of the past week... maybe longer. It may not be as deep as the Blood Bond, but it's at least as central to our hearts. The same thing that drove me into Spike's arms to begin with... the same thing that wouldn't let me kill Darla. Now it makes Cordy and I closer than we've ever been.

Loving Angel.

"Buffy, I..." she casts her eyes down at the sidewalk. Seeing her so vulnerable... so Un-Cordelia, is by far the weirdest thing I've seen yet. "Thank you for coming. For bringing him back. I knew you would... I mean... if anybody could. We've never been best friends or anything, but..." She looks up at me again, and this time, she gives me a stunning movie star smile. "He loves you. Whether I like it or not. So... thanks."

I smile back at her. "I'm glad you called me, Cordy. I love him too, you know. I don't think... either one of us really survives very well without the other."

She nods. "No kidding."

We hug while Gunn looks on. I feel a sort-of surge... relief, I guess. It could be one collective wave of it, from all of us... the friends, the lovers, the vampires that survived coming face to face with the Slayer...

I know I did the right thing. At least... my heart knows, even if my mind hasn't stopped screeching at me since we left the Regency Arms. My inner Giles is having a coronary.

I have to pick my battles, you know? And...I think...maybe Darla isn't mine to kill, anymore than she is Angel's. He's back, and that's all that matters.

I wave to Gunn as I get back into the DeSoto. "Nice to meet you, Charles. Take care of him, okay?"

He waves back. Nice smile. "You know it."

I start the car.

"Buffy!" Cordy calls.

I stick my head out the window to look at her again. "Yeah?"

"Don't be a stranger, okay?"

I just grin in response and pull away from the curb. The very curb, in the very car where we started this whole adventure. As I watch Cordy and Gunn fade away in the rearview, I see his arm wrap around her waist, and she leans back against his broad form, watching me drive off.

No... I don't think I'll be a stranger. Not anymore. I think I'll be back here again. Soon. When Glory is gone and my mom is well, and I feel okay leaving the Hellmouth in the hands of my friends...

I smile to myself, and turn on the radio. Doesn't matter what's on, really. I sing along anyway.

It's funny the way things go, isn't it? I know I'm going to leave here in a little while. Tonight, or maybe tomorrow... leave Angel behind, and probably Spike, too. I can't imagine he'll want to leave his Sire now that they've re-bonded. I'll leave behind these days of love and blood and pain... tears and smiles and nightmares and all those dusty old dreams just about come true... I'll go back to Sunnydale, alone, and tell Giles and the gang maybe a quarter of the whole story. I'll probably miss Riley... and Spike too, believe it or not... and sometimes I'll cry myself to sleep. I' ll go to class and I'll Slay. I'll fight with Dawn and just pretend that I' m exactly the same as I was before I left, but...

I'm not. And I never will be again.

It's okay. Things are the way they should be, for now. All is right with the world. And how often does that happen in my life?

We'll all be together again, soon. And someday, I can't help but think... maybe forever.

It's not exactly "Sleeping Beauty" (unless you count the Anne Rice porno version)...

But, you know? It's more fairy tale than I ever thought I'd have. And it's enough, for me. Just to know...

Just to know it's here, when I need it. Or when it needs me.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spike discovers his Sire's secret stash, finds out about Shanshu, and gets all weepy. Again.

It bloody well freaks me out to think about what I just did... begging Angel to let me stay like that. I hate groveling. I hate thinking. I want to *do*. Move. Fight. Shag. *Something*. So when the Pouf and I are finally done with our little meeting, I head off to the kitchen for the one activity I *know* will make me feel better.

Getting bloody well shitfaced.

I down a case of Guinness in fairly short order, and just sit there and stare at the empty bottles, listening to the beer sloshing around in my stomach. This is better... a nice buzz instead of the mopin' and cryin' and grousing all the damn time. I want all this shit to be done, and get back to kicking the Hell out of demons again. I want the Slayer to come back without a drop of blood, a scratch, or a speck of vampire dust on her, and pretend that Dru never returned from Brazil at all.

I want my goddamn wanker Sire to come the fuck in here and hold my sorry ass.

No sooner do I think it, than there he is, lurking in the doorway, wearing his trademark 'I'm so bloody worried about everything' expression. He stands there, staring at me fit to make my skin crawl and my blood boil all at the same time. Even with his soul, he still drums up all the same old psychotically paradoxical feelings in me. Only now they're more complicated. Not just because the Slayer's in the mix, and Darla and Dru aren't, but because I'm finding out that I love who Angel's bloody well become just as damn much as who he was before. Maybe more.

I'll be buggered if I know why. But now that I've decided to be his Most Favoured full time again, I guess I'll have plenty of time to figure it out.

"Whatrya gawkin' at, nonce?" I snap at him. I feel like a damn bug under a microscope, the way he's staring like he wants me to explain something, or lie to him and say everything's fine when both of us know it's not. Any second now, we could both feel half of what we are being ripped right out of us, and there's just no damn way to make that better. N ot that I would care to if I could. It's Angel's damn fault all of this happened to begin with. He's the one who made me and Dru, and everything that's happened to us since is somehow related to him. It's not my job to give him his precious damn forgiveness.

"Nothing, I just... I wanted to see how you were," he says softly. "And contribute this." He pulls a bottle of scotch out from behind his back and sets it on the island in front of me, then plunks his fat ass down on the opposite stool.

I stare at his offering. It's a really nice, dusty old bottle, 20 years aged at least, by the look of it. Where the Hell's he been hidin' this? I scoured every inch of this hole looking for hooch.

I pick it up and stare at it for a bit. Not that I can see what the fuck it is... I'm a bit too sloshed for reading, at this point. But anything's better than having to look into his whooped puppydog eyes. He's my superior in the Big Vamp Chain of Command, but when it comes to pretty much anything outside of fighting and pack politics, he's a wussy-ass little baby, always lookin' for somebody to tell him what to do.

Okay, so you can probably add shagging to the list of things he can get all right on his own.

"Are you going to open it?" he asks, after I've been staring for a while.

I shrug. Dunno why, but suddenly I can't find the energy to twist the top. And I certainly don't have the energy to coddle him. I don't want to make him feel better. I don't want to give him shit but a good right hook. Caretaking's been what the whole past week's been about, hasn't it? I figure maybe it's his turn.

Angel takes the bottle out of my shaky hands and cracks it open, not bothering with a glass as he takes a few good, long pulls, wincing a bit after.

Time was, Angelus could drink me right the Hell under the table. Twice, probably. I remember more than a few nights when we were out playing poker with all his pansy-ass gentleman buddies, and he'd fairly close to clean the bar out of Irish Whiskey and vodka, and still have to carry me home before the sun rose.

But I'm thinking liquor is one of those things Soulboy's given up for his damned eternal Lent, so he probably won't last long.

He stares into the bottle for a while himself before he hands it back to me. I hold his gaze, and take double the dose that he did in a few swallows, then pass it back again. Angel tips it at me.

"Here's to a brighter future," he toasts, and takes another long guzzle.

I just snort at that sentiment. Ponce.

We spend a good while passing the bottle back and forth, neither of us saying anything, or even making eye contact as we drown our sorrows. By the time the bottle's gone, Angel's leaning heavily on the table, supporting his Cro-Magnon skull in his hand.

"They're not dead yet," he mumbles, only half to me, "Whadya think's goin' on?"

Aw Christ. Can't the brooding bastard just leave me to my nice denial and the daydream of fucking him into the mattress I was just having?

I shrug. "Maybe Slayer just went shopping."

He shakes his head. "No... she took weapons."

"Yeah, well, you know the mall on Saturday. Things get rough," I growl, hoping he'll get the hint and shut the Hell up.

"Maybe I shoulda gone with her," he laments, looking sorrowfully into the now-empty bottle. "She shouldin' hafta clean up my messes."

Oh, for Chrissake. "She's the Damn Vampire Slayer, ya idiot. 'Ser job. And how do you figger this is your mess? You didn't conjure the stupid bitch back from Hell, didja?"

His scowl deepens, and his head sort of bobs and weaves around as he lifts it from his hand. "No. But's 'cause of me. Me an' my *Destiny*."

He says 'Destiny' like it's a nasty disease he caught from a whore and passed on to the rest of us. Which I guess it sort of is.

"What? Being a big fag in tights? Why the Hell would these stupid lawyers give a shit about that?"

I never did get all this prophecy crap. I didn't buy it from Dru, and I sure as Hell don't buy it from him. I think a bloke chooses his own damn Fate, myself. Sod the Powers that Be, and God and Satan and effin' Zeus or Buddha or whatever. Everything you bloody well do in your damn life is a *choice*. There's nothing guiding us or forcing us or any of that other bullshit. It's all the luck of the draw, and what you do with the cards after you pick up your hand. All his precious big battles of "Good" and "Evil" are a big waste of time, to me. I'd rather be watching telly.

Angel sighs and hauls his carcass off the stool, staggering across the kitchen toward one of the far pantry cabinets, and, like magick, produces a bottle of whiskey from within.

Christ! For someone who doesn't drink, he sure as Hell has an impressive stash. I make a mental note of that particular cabinet, and watch as he collapses onto the stool right next to me, ripping open the seal on the new  
bottle and downing a quarter of it before he hands it to me, and says,

"I'm sposta be key in the whole arma... armagod... apocalypse thing."

Look at the sorry sod. Drunk out of his gourd and spoutin' gibberish. It's just like old times, but without the corpses and the stupid-ass brogue.

Angelus used to talk about Destiny all the time, too. But he didn't go in for all that sacred scroll crap the rest of the Order did. To him, Fortune was being the king of the world, fucking me and Dru silly, and glutting on the blood of every human that crossed his path.

"The Earth is our smorgasbord, young Will," he used to tell me, "And it's our Destiny to eat every last thing on it."

I sort of liked that kind of Fate. This new shit stinks like thankless effin' manual labor, and I'm bloody well not looking forward to having any damn part of it. Especially since there's no maiming or mutilation involved.

"What the Hell are you gonna do? Depress the Forces of Darkness to death?"

He shrugs. "Guess I'm gonna do somethin' big that saves humanity."

Saves humanity. Bloody poetic irony, that, considering his goal not so long ago was wipin' out the whole lot of the poor buggers. And saving 'em's a pretty stupid notion, if you ask me. I mean, mortals die, right? That's sort of the operative definition of 'mortal'. The only bitch is in the details. Individual humans, I can see maybe... but the collective 'humanity'? Think that's an awful lot of trouble for nothing.

"Whatdya get outta that?" I ask after draining the new bottle to half empty. The room starts to tilt a little, and now there's two of the wanker staring at me in horrified disbelief. Just what I need.

"The satisfaction of knowing I did something to make up for all the evil," he explains, like its a damn given, "And I get to be human again, too, if I'm a good boy and eat all my spinach." He laughs at his sorry joke, low, drunken and bitter. More than a little nuts still, too.

I just stare at him. What the fuck did he just say?

"Though I dunno what the Hell good bein' human's gonna do me. Not gonna change a thing but make sure I die eventually...and maybe get a tan." He lets his head drop into his arms on the table. "Everybody I know'll prob'ly  
be dead by then anyway. 'Cept you."

Wait. Fucking HUMAN? What the bloody Hell is this all about then?

I keep gawking at him, feeling something start to bubble up in my gut. And it ain't just booze.

Angel blinks at me. "What?"

Human. After all the bloody bullshit I've done this past week to bring him back to stable goddamn vampire with a soul mode, and all that's gonna happen is he's gonna go MORTAL? What the FUCK?

"HUMAN?" I yelp at him, and all of a sudden I can identify the feeling in my gut. It's a familiar old bloody friend, where he's concerned. Black fucking rage. "You're gonna be fucking HUMAN?"

His gaze clears a little at my shouting. "That's what the prophecy says. 'After he fulfills his Destiny, the vampire with a soul will Shanshu.' Become human. Live and die and pay taxes and all that."

I start to wonder if maybe there's holy water in the liquor. I mean, my brain's gotta be melting. Or his is.

Or... maybe he's just fucking with me. I laugh.

"Oh, that's a bloody riot. Nice one, Angelus."

His face goes deadly serious. "I'm not kidding. It's my reward."

I find myself watching his face spin around, and blink furiously to straighten him out as the anger boiling around in my stomach turns into a burn that reaches all the way up and grabs a choke hold on my dead heart.

"That's a pile-a bullocks. You're *dead*. You can't just *turn* human, ya idiot!"

I don't know who I'm trying to convince, because he bloody well looks like he believes it. Of *course* it's horseshit. You can go *from* human *to* demon, but everybody knows you can't go back again! It's just common bloody  
sense!

He nods somberly. "It is possible. It happened once before."

Okay, now I know he's out of his effin' tree. "Fuck you, it did not! You been a bloody walkin' corpse for 250 damn years!"

He shakes his head and leans closer, like he's gonna let me in on some big secret. I'm thinking, as his blurry face gets right in mine, that I'm finally about to hear the punchline of this pretty goddamn un-funny joke.

"No. It did, I swear on a stack of Bibles," he says, holding up a hand. "Two Novembers ago. Me 'n Buffy fought a Mohra demon, and I got its blood mixed in mine. They've got regenerative essence, and I came back to life."

I'm totally sober in a split second. Angel goes on babbling like I'm not even there, his eyes looking out into nothing.

"I was alive for a whole day. Buffy and I... we made love, over and over and over... and we ate chocolate in bed, and..." He looks up at me again. "Do you remember what chocolate tastes like, Will?"

You know, I hate sharp turns in conversations that are nonsense to begin with. Dru used to do that to me all the time. "I'm not senile, ya wank. Had two Clark bars day before yesterday."

Angel shakes his head, and his attention wanders away again. "No. I mean what it *really* tastes like. With a human mouth... the way it melts into cream on your tongue... and it leaves this... sugary residue on your teeth. Buffy was like that, too... sweet and musky, and I could really *taste* her... *feel* her for the first time. The way she's meant to be felt. The way chocolate's *supposed* to taste."

He's babbling, making less and less sense as he goes, but still... It almost hurts to watch his face... The way his eyes light up at the same time they fill with tears. I know he's drunk and all, and probably having a psychotic episode, but... he feels it. And that means I feel it. Bullshit or not, his pain explodes in my blood, hitting me like a brick upside the head.

I'm speechless.

"I gave it up," he goes on, "I gave her up. I asked them to turn me back, and now... I've already forgotten what chocolate tastes like."

His voice cracks at the last, and one of the tears breaks free to run over his cheek. I don't know what the Hell's going through me. Disbelief. Anger. That old green goblin jealousy, because I can't even imagine how sweet my Sire would be human... but whatever it is, it makes me reach up and stop that single, salty drop with my fingertip.

Angel turns to look at me again, and the sorrow in his eyes near rips me in half.

"I love her, Will. I really do. I shouldn't, but I do."

And there goes my poor old, dead heart, shattering into a billion screaming little pieces. I forgot about this part of the Bonding. How big it is to have someone else inside you... how crowded it can get, especially with somebody as damn melodramatic as my Sire. Once upon a time, when all this started between us, it was like being stuffed full of fire and shadows -- about power and domination, desttruction and *taking*. But now... this new bugger flowing through me... all of a sudden it's love and sharing, hope against bloody hope, and giving.

Aw, Christ. I think I'm gonna puke. What the *fuck* was I thinking? I never wanted to be human again, or have a soul, or fuck-all of what being tied to him means. Now I've got all that and more, and I don't know how the Hell to give any of it back.

"She loves you too, fool. You know that. Sod the bloody should-be's. When the crap have we ever done a damn thing by the effin' rules anyway?"

Sounds like as good a platitude as any, I guess. He just looks at me like I'm the damn Madonna, and I've blessed him or something, those soul-tears streaming down his angelic face, and almost smiles. Then he reaches up and cups my cheek, pulling our heads together so his forehead rests against mine, and cuts right into my eyes with his.

"I love you too, Will. Don't think I don't. I'm sorry about everything...the pain, and Dru, and..."

I can't fucking take it anymore. I grab his face in both hands, and kiss him.

I don't want to talk. I don't want to listen. I don't want to think. Don't want him to be sorry. I don't want a soddin' thing but to forget all of this.

His mouth is bitter with liquor and salty with tears, and I plunge my tongue inside and drink it all like ambrosia. He tangles his big hands in my hair and dives right into it, nipping hard at my lips and tongue, drawing tiny droplets of blood, then licking it away.

"I love you," he murmurs, "I'm sorry. I love you."

Is he sorry he loves me? Sorry he made me? Sorry... he's just fucking sorry. Well, I'm not goddamn sorry. Not for anybloodything. Not that I love him, and not the years we were together, and not the years we weren't. All there is, is right now, and even if my mate and his mate and the whole fucking world turns to dust, it doesn't matter. We're here, and we've got a damn future no matter what the Hell species we end up.

All I have to do is show him that.

"Will, I..." he sobs.

I cut him off by claiming his mouth again. No more fucking words. I lean hard into him, and push us both to the floor.

"Shut up. Just shut the fuck up and feel," I order him, like I'm the Master. And I guess right now, I am, because he's crying and drunk and lost in his damn pain. I'm not letting him do it. I'm not letting him drown. I just bloody well got him back, and no way in Hell he's ever leaving me again.

I rip his shirt up over his head, revealing that perfect damn alabaster torso, and nose-dive down onto the rippling muscles, biting and licking, stroking and teasing him until his tears vaporize into panting half breaths. He finally sets to stripping me, desperately tearing my jeans at the fly, kicking them away, and reaching right down to take hold of my cock.

That's right, Sire. Feel. Touch me. Take me, I'm bloody well yours, and I don't want the pain anymore. I don't want to hurt. I don't want you to hurt. I just want to be, and I want you to be with me.

He's a writhing mass of contradiction. He snarls and sobs at the same time as he flips me onto my back in a motion that manages both drunken clumsiness and elegant, animal grace, then takes to devouring mouthfuls of my screaming flesh with alternating violence and tenderness.

Christ! It's like being set on fire, and it feels so good to know that as fucked up as I am, he's always worse, and from now until the end of the damn planet, we'll bear it all together.

Angel strokes me hard and fast as he smashes our mouths together... a force that wipes everything else from my mind, giving me what I wanted at last, making me nothing but nerves singing and balls tightening. It's perfect... firm... quick... I go flying over the edge because this... this is what I am and what he is and what we are together. I scream and spurt into his hands and he grinds up against me, growling in my ear, then tears into my throat and takes the rest of me into him as he drinks and I cry and come for-damn-ever, and the whole world falls away into cool, soothing shadows of nopain, nodeath, nochip...

I just let myself go.

When I come to again, it's still dark, but there's a proper mattress under my back, and Angel's big, naked bulk is wrapped tight around me, his eyes soft and wet just above mine, watching.

"You're awake," he observes, caressing my face.

Part of me wants to curse and shove him off, because I hate this mushy bullocks, and still pretty much hates him. But that part's been swallowed whole by the blubbering, terrified, lost whelp that's smashed its way out of my heart. I close my eyes and gulp.

"I'm sorry," he says, "I didn't mean to drain you so far."

I can't say anything, looking at him. I just shake my head, and the vision of my Maker blurs as I start to cry again. You know, I've been around for almost 150 years, and twenty-something as a pretty sorry-ass human before that, but never have I cried like a little pansy so much as I have this past damn week. He just brings it out of me, I guess... especially now that I can taste his pain like raindrops on my tongue.

The most fucked up thing of all is -- with him here, holding me like a scared little fledge again, I don't care. I have to cry. I have to bloody well let all this out, because I *hate* this feeling. Knowing everything about my damn mockery of an unlife is changing all at once, spinning out of control, and there's not a damn thing I can do about it but hold on to him and hope he can make it all better.

I only felt even close to this fucked up twice before, that I can remember. The first was when I realized that the one damn creature I loved more than anything had just fucking vanished, staggering off into the sunset and leaving me alone with his psychobitch Sire and my nutbird Dru, without a goodbye or a word or a bloody clue one way or the other just what the fuck I was supposed to do next. The second was in an effin' dorm room at SunnyHell U, when I was finally about to eat juicy Red for dinner, and I realized I couldn't bite. Couldn't feed or hunt or anything, anymore. Those two times, I lost everything that made me *me*, and I wanted to just walk out in the sun with the pain of it all.

And now... now me and him are lying here in his bed, waiting for one half of our damn family to wipe out the other half, and I'm full of him and full of her and full of them and about to set out on another damn life I don't know how to live.

I'm just fucking terrified. You won't bloody well hear that too often from me, either. So I lie there and stare up at him, and goddamn it, I want to tell him all of this. He's my Sire, and I guess my lover, and I should be able to just come out and say, 'I'm scared shitless, Angelus. Just bloody shag me until it's all over and I feel like I'm standing on solid ground again.'

But I can't. I can't damn well say that to him. So I just lie there, shaking like a newborn puppy, and try to stop crying.

All these things are raging around in my muddled up head... in my blood. I can hear Dru crying... feel Darla and the Slayer coming to blows. It's like a storm kicked up inside me, and all I can do is lie there. Helpless. Bloody useless. Crippled, stupid, purposeless fucking moron Spike.

Angel feels it too. He closes his eyes, and that enormous brow scrunches tight, his whole body going tense against me.

I'm not the only one who's shaking, now.. Not the only one who's waiting for the whole damn universe to come crashing down. Will I survive it, when they go? Will he? Are we all about to meet some fucking gruesome cosmic Final Death?

Then... it's over. Gone. No pain, no death screams... just quiet. All the bits and pieces of my blood are exactly where they were before.

And aren't I just bloody well crying again? As much relief as there is in it, I'm still fucking terrified and empty and cast adrift... maybe more, because now he really is all that's left of me.

Angel finally opens his eyes and looks down at me, and I can almost hear his thoughts.

'It's all right. It's over. You're safe.'

Safe...but nothing's different! I don't... I can't understand what the bloody fuck is going on! I start trying to shove him off, or move out from under him... start trying to get away. To where, I don't fucking know. I just can't take this!

His face softens, but he holds me fast, looking hard into my eyes. I don't think I've seen anyone look at me with that kind of tenderness before in my life... except that one time... one single damn moment that I haven't thought about in so long...

~~~~~~~~~  
("William!"

His voice is half erotic spell, and half bullwhip tipped with meat hooks. I 'm not doing anything ...just sitting in the garden, watching Dru dig worms out of the flowerbeds, singing 'em a little song, and then sucking them down with a slurp like she's eating a plate of pasta.

Mindin' my own business, me, and still Angelus' voice makes that single word sound like 'Get your hide in here so I can tan it raw, whelp!'

Naturally, I go, running full speed into the house like I'm on fire. Twenty years, I've been a vampire, and a fairly badass one, too, but here I am, skittering into his study and standing at attention before the bastard with my eyes nailed to the floor. The book he's reading snaps shut. Funny how such a little sound can portend what I know's going to be a big pain.

"My Dam tells me there was trouble in the square tonight. That someone snatched the Mayor's daughters right in the middle of the New Year's Parade, and started a right panic."

I say nothing. If I admit it, Angelus'll pound me into meat paste. But if I deny it... Angelus'll pound me into meat paste. I'm fairly well fucked, either way. Besides, the bugger can probably smell the sweet little princesses on me already anyway, and all this lecture bunk is just foreplay for the torture.

"Do ya ken anythin' about this, William?"

I swallow hard and stare at the funny pattern in the oriental rug under my feet. That's a direct question, and one way or the other, I better damn well answer it.

"Sire... uh... I..." I stutter

"Yes or no, Will? Didya take yer kill out in the open in front of the entire village?"

His voice is soft, but I can hear the edge of fury like broken shards of ice, freezing and slicing me to the core.

"Yes, Sire."

He sighs. I hear him get up from the chair, but don't dare raise my eyes. I don't plan on seein' what he's gonna do to me until he does it.

Angelus stops right in front of me, so now I'm staring at his fancy ridin' boots. I spit shined those damn things for an hour this afternoon, and I have to say, I did a good job, because I can see my face reflected perfectly back at me.

I look bloody terrified.

"Look at me, boy," he commands.

It takes a lot of effort to obey, and look into that face. It's like gazing straight into the eyes of God and Death and the great love of your life all at once. I've seen a million things in those oceans of sable: rage, lust, and hunger... But this... I don't know what the Hell it is.

With a motion so quick it makes me jump fair out of my skin, he grabs my shoulders and shakes me fit to make my teeth rattle and the blood of the anklebiters in question slosh around in my gut.

"Listen to me well, William! I knae ya think it funny to be pullin' pranks like this, but ya got to understand! This isn't London, boy! It's Romania,and the folk here take creatures of the night seriously! I'm nae talkin' about bein' run out of town on a rail by a mob, either, but them sneakin' in here at dawn and stakin' us as we sleep! Is that what you want? To be dust in yer sheets without even a chance ta fight? Is that what you want for our Dru? For me, your Master?"

I'd rather have him screaming in rage and beatin' me bloody than this, truth be told, because the fear and concern in his voice damn near rips me apart.

"N-no, Sire!" I yelp

Then he slaps me. Bloody *SLAPS* me -- flat palmed, like a woman. Yeah, it hurts, but it's more humiliating than anything. It's all I can do not to cry like one, too.

"Yer nae stupid, William! Stop always actin' like ya are! I dunna wanna lose ye to some idiot game, do ya understand?!" He raps my temple none too gently with his forefinger. "Use yer brain, boy! Havna I taught ye better  
than that?"

I just stand there and shake. He stares straight into my eyes, drilling right through me, and I can feel every inch of my innards screamin' for him to stop.

"I'm sorry, Sire," I mumble.

I see a shudder run through his huge frame as he lets go of my shoulders and steps away. Guess the beating comes now. I'm ready. I'm almost looking forward to it... it'd be a Hell of a lot better than what he's been doin'. Seeing him scared makes me scared, because there isn't a bloody thing my Master fears.

"Sorry willna save ye when the hunters come," he says softly, "That'll be left ta me."

For a long time, he doesn't say or do anything. The tension just builds as I wait for what's coming next. The lash, his fists... whatever. I just wish he'd bloody well get to it already, before I pop.

"Darla kens I should stake ye and scatter yer dust to the winds. She says that yer a bother... a danger to us all. And in the most, she's right."

Oh, bloody, screaming Hell. He's not gonna beat me, he's gonna dust me. I start shaking harder, close my eyes and just wait not to be anymore. He steps toward me again, and touches my face.

"Beautiful Will. Look at ya, shakin' like a wee child. I put the fear intoya, didn't I? Well, good. That's as it should be. Ye've not a lot to be afraid of in this world, boy, but I am most assuredly one of them." His voice drops back to a soft tone again, and he raises my gaze to his. "It's only this... you are my Childe. My First Made, and my Most Favoured. Of all our line, it is you who is closest to me... you who are my heir, do ya see? I canna bear the loss of ye to some idiot diversion ye'd cooked up because yer bored. I'd rather see ye dead by my hand, than that. It's ma duty as your Master to protect ye, and I canna do so if yer ta be runnin' about, stokin' the ire of the cattle like this! I canna always rescue ya, or the rest of our kin, from yer stupidity!"

"I'm s-sorry, Sire," I say again, and feel the tears finally break free and run down my face. I never cry when he beats me till my skin's peeling off, but this... his words and the look in his eye... hurts worse than anything he's ever done to me, because all I want in the world is to make him proud. Make him glad he made me. He's the finest hunter ever to walk the Earth, and as his Childe, it's my duty to do justice to his name. That I've failed him  
enough to bring him fear almost makes me want to die.

Angelus takes another long, deep breath, and claims the other side of my face, giving my head one gentle shake as his eyes drill into mine. "Ye could be a legend in yer own right, William, doncha knae that? Yer of the greatest Line in the history of our race, and all of creation could be at yer feet, if only ye'd listen ta me, just once."

I'm stunned, is what I am. I hurt all over from the lecture, and yet... that look in his eye and the fact that he's barely touched me at all in his anger are like the greatest gifts he's ever given me, and I realize for the first time...

Maybe the bastard loves me, after all. I nod. "I promise, Sire... I'll try."

He smiles and kisses me lightly on the lips. "Good. I'll hold ya to it, son, mark my words. I want to see ye make something of yerself.")  
~~~~~~~~~

A hundred years later, those same eyes look at me with that same affection, and he brushes gentle kisses to my mouth and cheeks, lapping away my tears. I watch him, memorizing this moment... taking in every detail of that beautiful face -- the features of the damn monster that might as well be God, to me, and I realize...

He's the foundation. The center of all of us. My reason for damn well being. A century and a half ago, I didn't know what the Hell I was about or what I was doing, either. My last years as a human were a pathetic fucking mess of blood and fights and booze, and not a damn thing in the world made sense.

Until him. Until he walked into that bar, took me to hand, and made everything right. Angelus knew just what I ached for, what I really wanted, and he gave it to me.

This Angel knows, too. He might have a soul, and fritter away his damn eternity making amends for things that weren't his fault to begin with, but... Despite all of that, he's still Him. And despite all the time we've been apart, he knows me inside and out, and knows exactly what I'm feeling and what I need, even if I can't tell him.

He kisses me softly, and murmurs, "Sh... it's okay, Will. I know you're scared. I am too. But everything will be all right. I'm here, and I'll always look after you, no matter what. I promise."

I want to believe him, I really do. I want not to feel this hollow in thepit of my gut, and the ache of this goddamn chip in my head, and the bleeding, gushing wound of losing him and Dru and everything I ever believed in. I want to forget that he almost died just a few days ago. I want his words to comfort me, and make me believe that there is so  
much more ahead of us than right now... just like he did all those years past, that night when he finally showed me that he wanted more for me, too.

But he promised me a lot of things when I was young, and all that turned out to be a lie. He promised me the world, and his love for all eternity, but his vows ended up meaning fuck all against the crushing tides of the universe turning, and the power of a Gypsy curse. Three nights after that lecture in his study, he was gone, and the next time I saw him, he couldn't even look me in the *eye*, let alone take me back under his wing.

Then he kisses me again... long and soft...gentle, and strokes the length and breadth of my whole body, turning my skin on like a neon sign... and Now is all of a sudden just like Then. When I was lost, he found me. When I was groveling around in the muck, he picked me up and made me into something. So when he takes me this time, sliding inside me slow and easy, it's more than just my body that fills with him. It's like he's inflating a balloon in my heart as he moves in me... moves *me*... and I'm bloody well complete. This time, when the world explodes, and we cry out to each other,  
all the fear and the doubt is just gone. This time, I believe him when he says he loves me.

I hold him after, and we just sort of stare out into space without the need to say much of anything at all.

Except...

"You really gonna be human?" I ask him.

He shrugs. "So the prophets say."

That's a big damn deal, if you think about it. For all three of us. I mean... after all this, what the Hell would happen to me if he was all forgiven and mortal, and him and the Slayer ran off to buy a house in the burbs and a minivan, pumpin' out a few pups... Where the Hell would I go, after I'd swore my eternal sorry ass to him? Be their in-house damn demon babysitter?

"Huh," I grunt.

He peers up at me from his perch on my shoulder, and gives me a little smile. "If it happens... it's not going to change the way I feel about you. Nothing can. I owe you, Will... and I love you, whether I'm human or not. I failed you last time, but I won't fail you again. Not as long as I exist."

I stare at him for a bit, and chew my lip. Hell, I don't know if I believe him or not. But I guess it doesn't really matter. All I can do is take him at his undead Boy Scout word and hope he really is as damn noble as he always tries to be. He does sound like he means it.

"Sure, mate. If you say so."

He chuckles softly and burrows into my neck, licking at the already mostly healed wound in my throat until I hear his breathing slow and deepen. I hold him closer as my tension leaks away, and think about what happens next. Time stopped, this past week. The whole damn universe held its breath and waited for us to find our places and cool down from the sun exploding...until we all settled to earth and our pieces cooled. Now, with my beloved wrapped tight in my arms, it starts up again.

It wasn't just him that got brought back from someplace cold and dark and damn scary by this... it was all of us, including me. And that's why I'll stand by him. Ever since I lost Dru and got this chip in my head, I've been like a bloody mental patient set free without their meds... scrambling around, trying to deal, when the one thing that really could help me function was nowhere to be found. But he's here now, right up close to me, his stupid breath tickling the hair on my neck, and I think... from here on out, it'll get easier. He's my master again, the way he should've been all along.

But I won't tell him that.

Eventually I forget I was ever scared at all and join him in sleep, slipping into dreams of Slayers and souls, sunshine and love and pasts laid to rest and such noncy bullocks, like a damn fruity-ass puffy-shirted poet. It's probably some shit out of the Great Pouf's subconscious, knowing him. Guess I'll just have to get used to the fucked up things that go on in his head.

Like the great, heaping gobs of cookie dough fudge mint chip ice cream all over the place, which I can't figure out for the unlife of me.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angel wraps things up.

The city resembles an ocean of stars from here, rippling and undulating with mechanical life, as if I'm looking down into the bloodstream of civilization itself.

So many are drowning in that sea. For all its sparkle and shine, for each glittering beacon that half-illuminates the streets, there are a dozen shadows which can't be lit that swallow hope whole.

You know, it's funny... as many lessons as I've learned this past week... as deeply as I have seen into myself and those closest to my heart, it seems like there is always more to know. Seeing Buffy march proudly out to what very well might have been her doom... watching Spike open the thick, concrete walls around his heart and finally admit that he is vulnerable, and afraid...

And that I am standing here, looking down on this sea that I've come to think of as home, feeling the first true sense of hope and purpose I can remember since Wesley translated the Aberjian prophecies what seems like a human lifetime ago...

No matter how long I live, how high I fly or how low I fall, it seems there is always more. Something new to experience...somewhere new to go. An adventure held in each moment that passes by.

An eternity ago, I was a restless boy, never satisfied with the suffocating roots of my here and now. I was hungry for the new, for the change, for a different horizon than the one I saw with bleary, hungover eyes upon rising each noon. And that misguided quest for Different led that shortsighted, wounded boy to step into an eternal abyss of pain and torment, beckoned by a flash of sensual blue eyes.

His fate turned out to be the wrong sort of adventure. When he should have stopped and taken stock of his surroundings, looked inward for his answers, instead, he looked away, and all was lost for him.

Two hundred and forty-three years later, another set of eyes. These like autumn grass, and the thing that was neither demon nor man any longer -- in fact, had withered to nothing at all -- didn't look for or find adventure there, but hope. Light in the endless darkness. Purpose and worth when he had none. Definition that constantly eluded him. Tiny hands of Destiny, tipped in power pink painted nails, had offered him a hand out of that pit of not-being, and gave him a reason to exist.

Somewhere in between was another pair of windows to no-soul, these of azure and ice... a creature marching proudly, always in the middle, the very definition of This and That, Then and Now, neither pushing me into darkness, nor pulling me into light, but simply being. Being Simply.

It's no coincidence that all three came together now in this time, at this place in my life. This crossroads where I stood, crushed under the weight of both the hope dashed and adventure wearing... and because of that convergence, I find that I have discovered yet another way to be. Something... more. Something that is a part of all of them.

I can't explain it adequately, I don't think. I don't even really understand it, yet, truth be told. But the pieces are slowly fitting together... all the things I have been, and all the creatures who have been with me... looking at them together, seeing the way that they fit into what I've built here... I think I'm finding that that is where I live.

I didn't die. I fell, but I rose again, with my lovers' help. I stood up and said no to the darkness, the weakness, and let go of it all. Because, in the end, the only thing I control is me.

Although sometimes I'm not so certain of that.

But the demon is quiet, now. Not absent, the way it had been for awhile. Not howling as it so often does, either. It sits in the back of my mind and waits, almost patiently, as if it knows that my final quest will be to understand it. To learn to be at peace with it... find and accept its place in who I am.

Darla and Drusilla aren't dead. It's been nearly 12 hours since Buffy left, and so much has happened in that time... to all of us. I felt it all happen, as did Spike. I know that Darla and Buffy came eye-to-eye and fought. I know that they came to... some sort of understanding. I know that they both walked away... unscathed, at least physically. My beloved was filled with apprehension, then rage, and finally a sorrow that rang in my bones... but there was peace, after. Buffy's spirit had gone quiet and still as she sat somewhere green and growing, just watching the world go by for a while.

And Spike... my Childe. I knew all of his thoughts, as well... his fear of being alone... of always losing. Of the end of our family, and being without me again. I know what it took for him to ask if he could stand by me as my Most Favoured. I know that he discovered his own answers, this past week, and that he found something that he needed in me, too. Who I am now, and not in the ghost of a demon long dead. When he broke in my arms, I felt it... felt him open... felt his anger and fear rush away, and finally, we were able to take our rest together.

Yes... even after all that we have seen this week, I suspect there is still more erudition ahead for all of us... Darla included. More battles. More losses. More laughter and love, sex and tears. A future, wherever it might lead us.

And this possibility, I think, is a good thing.

So I sit with my feet dangling over the roof's edge and let it all wash through me... all the bits of time and space I carry inside, flowing through my blood, filled with echoes of yesterday, whispers of now, and songs of tomorrow.

Buffy's approach perfumes the air with the scent of green grass, sunny sky, and blood only recently showered away -- hers and my Sire's. It's too hard to turn and look... I won't be able to bear the sight of a single cut or the smallest bruise marring her skin...

She leans her elbows on the ledge beside me, cupping her head in her hands, and looks down to the street. The glance out of the corner of my eye makes me smile... my little warrior... always has to assess the escape routes before she can appreciate the sights.

"It's beautiful up here," she comments when she finally looks up at the metropolitan vista before us.

I turn fully to look at her, and my dead heart swells with love and pride. She is magnificent. Unique. And I think, for the first time, I'm truly seeing her. Not who I wanted or dreamed or wished for her to be, or thought she represented, but pure, unadulterated Buffy.

It's quite a rush. She is Goddess still, but fully human. The pedestal of perfection I once placed her on now dust, but I find that I worship her no less... as friend and lover... ally and precious soulmate. This is the most complete and genuine that our bond has ever been.

"Yeah," I agree, and turn back to the sparkling.

"It's easy to get lost in a place like this, isn't it? There's so much to handle... so much you have to face without really understanding. It's all so beautiful, and yet...so much of it is ugly and dark." She sighs deeply and shakes her head. "It's a wonder we're not all deranged."

I don't know if she's talking about the city below, or our respective callings, or just life on this planet in general... her sweeping statement of wisdom is true of all of them. How many profundities have I heard in the past few weeks? How much learning are three flawed beings like myself, my love, and my Childe supposed to be able to accept all at once?

Or maybe that's the point. Maybe that's the reason they came. Because together, we can share all these burdens. Puzzle out all the questions in our very different minds and hearts, and teach one another our discoveries.

Together, we are strong. Funny that an evil demon bent on my destruction once told me that. The demon that gave me one single, perfect day I've ever experienced, shared with the beautiful heroine beside me.

It's an amazing sensation. To have all of that is a foundation I've never had in all of my incarnations. A safety... a shelter against all the storms of Hell. She and Spike complete me, and I them, and yet, we are all becoming whole unto ourselves at the same time.

Two hundred and fifty years old, nearly, and I'm only now growing up.

"Maybe we are," I tell her. "Maybe we're all insane, and the only difference is in perception of what's sane and what's not."

I'm 'going all Buddha' on her, as she used to call it, and I expect to find her shooting me a 'what the Hell are you babbling about?' look.

She's not. Instead, she smiles wryly, and gives a little nod. "Maybe so. I mean... look at us. How rational is it for a Slayer to be Bonded to two of the most formerly evil vampires ever Made? I mean... mind-bending sex aside."

She wiggles her eyebrows at me at that and gives me a smarmy grin. I have to laugh and reach out to pull her closer, my arm wrapped tight around her shoulders.

I *like* this woman.

"Definitely have to put that aside," I agree.

We're quiet for a few minutes, just gazing out over the city as she leans her head on my shoulder, and traces fingertip spirals on my thigh. That simple contact is like fire under my skin, and a tingle runs up my spine.

"I didn't kill them," she informs me softly.

"I know."

"I wanted to, Angel. I wanted to hurt them for what they did to you. But when I got there... When I came face to face with her..." she sighs deeply. "It just didn't seem right."

That makes me glance at her in shock. I hadn't spent much time trying to deduce Buffy's reasoning for not killing my Dam and Childe. But I'm certain that if I had, one of the possibilities certainly wouldn't have been the morality of the matter. Even I, in all my indecision and weakness, know they should be stopped. The only reason I couldn't was that demon instinct to preserve my line... and my shame that what they had become was my fault to begin with.

Buffy has neither of those burdens on her. She's the Slayer, and my Mate. As both, the decision to take retribution or not was her right to make. To think that she felt some compassion toward two evil, twisted demons...

Either she's even more extraordinary than I've always thought, or she really is mad.

"I see," I reply. I'm not quite sure what to say. That they still exist makes me glad, angry, and ashamed at once, and none of those things are rational or constructive, so impassive neutrality is probably my best choice, here.

She arches a wry eyebrow at me. "You see? Aren't you curious to know why?"

I consider that question carefully for a moment, so that when I reply, I'm certain the answer is true.

"No."

Buffy is silent, at that. But a moment later, she adds, "She loved you, you know. In her way. She still does."

I take a deep breath and close my eyes, and there she is again... Darla. Who she once was... what she might have been... and what she is now. I swing my legs fully around and take Buffy into my arms, pulling her close. She leans forward until our foreheads touch, and we are eye to eye once more.

So much like that moment with Will this afternoon, when we were drunk, in my kitchen....

"I know."

Part of me does wonder... what passed between my Mate and my Dam, this afternoon? What did they see inside of, and say to, one another? Why did either one let the other walk away? What lessons did those two females share that I will never know?

"You're characteristically chatty, considering how busy your mind is. Guess your particular flair for effusiveness hasn't changed any." She grins broadly.

I have to return that smile. It's funny... it doesn't seem to matter how hard things have been between us. It is always, *always* good to be near her. "Whereas *you* have actually developed a vocabulary that extends beyond, 'like, duh...'"

She laughs and punches me lightly in the chest. "I *am* in college, you know. And unlike high school, I actually *go* to classes. And *study*, thank you very much."

I catch her hand and her gaze, softly bringing the former to my mouth, and gently falling into the latter. Instead of plunging into an abyss, this woman's eyes are an endless fount of light that buoy me. But always, and still, she is an adventure. I wonder... had I met her like as a human man, would she have had the power to save me then? Would Liam have stepped back from the abyss and learned the things that I have from her?

I imagine not.

"I know," I whisper as my lips brush her fine knuckles, "And if I haven't said so, I am very, very proud of you."

She blushes, and I watch in wonder as tears well in those breathtaking eyes, her lower lip trembling. So beautiful and warm, my Buffy... so alive. "Thank you. It... means so much to me to hear you say that."

I smile at her. "I mean it. I admire the woman you've become a great deal, Buffy. And I love you... as much as I did the girl you were before. Maybe more so. I consider it a great honor to have been allowed to be a part of your life, and to be able to see it happen... I only wish I hadn't missed so much."

Buffy presses herself more tightly against me, wrapping her arms around my neck and holding on with the same ferocity she did on the Day That Wasn't, when Fate tore her from my arms and obliterated that single, perfect moment so that it existed nowhere but in the twisted wreckage of my memory.

(I'll never forget!)

"Part of my life? Angel, God... you are so central to who I am. You taught me and gave me more than pretty much anyone else I've ever known. I wouldn't be half the person I am if I'd never met you... or loved you as much as I do."

That look in her eyes... all that love, so pure, so certain still after everything she's seen... everything I've put her through... I'm starting to believe that is the greatest gesture of forgiveness I could possibly find.

I wish I could tell her... About That Day, when everything was immaculate for just a measure of heartbeats. About Shanshu, and the hope it brought me when Wesley first said the words...

(Oops, uh...) (I hook up with the only person who came to LA to get older.)

But there's still so far to go. So much still to do... To tell her now would accomplish nothing but multiply the longing I know we already feel. And I have so many fences to mend... with her... with my friends... with the Powers themselves. So, for now, well...

For now, there is only *now*.

I reach up and trace the line of her cheek, the soft curve of her eyes, her tiny nose, her warm lips... details burned into my memory from a thousand moments watching them... thinking of them... drawing them... longing to see them again...

I've adored this face so completely for so long, with everything I am.

"I think I could safely say the same thing, Buffy."

It's true. Of all the human beings (and other creatures, as well) who I have met on my path, no one has taught me more about what it means to be human, to love, to care, than this small, tender, ferocious woman in my arms.

Then I kiss her, because, really, what else could I possibly say? There aren't words to tell her what she means to me. How deeply her being is nested into my heart. Or how still, despite mountains and valleys, time and distance, and even the pits of Hell coming between us, she is still my hope. She remains the living symbol of everything I long for, for the future.

I can't tell her. I can only show her. Another lesson taught to me over and over again by the pure, selfless giving of my soulless Childe, who has never been able to say the words.

Buffy closes her heavenly eyes and relaxes into my arms, melting into the soft caress of our mouths sweetly blending... the ancient, well-remembered clash of hot on cold, just as it always has been between us. Perfect balance and synchronicity.

Touching her is like... climbing to a mountain peak, standing tall in the clouds and looking down over the world like a god. Like throwing open the doors of home after the longest journey, to find a fire in the hearth and a smiling face to welcome you.

It's the first time we've been unhurried... the first time I feel like forever is mine, and within that endless space, I can take my ease in caressing her. Who knows when I might have this leisure, this blessing, again? The precious gift of her trembling body, so tiny against mine... the ambrosia of her velvetwarm skin... I can note every change in her form that time has wrought... the way her curves have filled and become more defined. The way her breasts feel full in my seeking hands as I peel away her dress and bare her to my wondering eyes.

I stand there, glad not to need breath, and memorize the magnificent beauty of my Mate... my very heart, before me.

Her explorations are different this time, too. As she strips me, she smoothes her hands and mouth over every inch of my skin, slowly feeling... memorizing me, as well. I close my eyes and lose myself in her touch.

This time, we make love. Slow. Easy. Deliberately. There's no desperation in it. No pain. No frantic clutching for healing or salvation or forgetting. No fear. No lessons to be learned or promises to be made. No blood or tears, just soft moans and sweet cries. Just two people coming together in love.

I love her. Maybe I shouldn't, but I do, and I always will.

Our eyes remain open as I lay her down on the roof and move within her, and we watch one another. I watch the emotion... the passion in those seas of love and acceptance... we climb together to somewhere higher than we've gone before. Somewhere more real... more human... and the peak is quiet... easy and still... no growls... no teeth, just hearts and eyes and souls wide open and gazes clear. A single, unspoken "I love you" between us, washing over our bonded bodies like a soft rain as we explode tenderly into nothing... and everything.

Afterward, she puts on my shirt, and we pillow ourselves on the rest of our clothes and look up at the starless sky, wrapped in each other's arms, like any two lovers on a Los Angeles rooftop.

"When I thought I lost you, Angel... when Cordy called, and we didn't know where you where..." she says softly, her voice barely disturbing the air around us. She tips her head back to lean against my chest. "All I could think about were all the things I never got to say to you. Things I wanted to thank you for... and... apologize for."

I kiss the top of her head, inhaling the sweet aroma of her hair, and the lingering musks of battle and passion on her warm skin--all the things that make her my Buffy--in one deep breath.

"You don't have to do either. Ever," I assure her, and it's true. Even the greatest gift I might have given her, or the most grievous wound she may have inflicted on me can never balance the scales of all I owe her.

She turns in my arms, and there are tears in her eyes again. You know... of all the things I could accomplish in my eternity, the one I wish most fervently for is to never have her cry again. Or at least... to never be the cause of her sorrow.

"No. I do," she insists. "Angel... you've given me so much, and never asked for a single thing in return. Not once. And there have been so many times when I hurt you..."

I interrupt her with a soft kiss, and pull her back to me. "Don't. I don't want anything from you, but for you to be happy and well. The rest is irrelevant. The past is gone, Buffy. We can't change any of it now, no matter how much we'd like to. All we can do is leave it behind and move forward again."

She pulls away and her eyes light up as though someone sparked a fire in her soul, and her smile warms with it. To think that this smile belongs to me...

"That's very balanced of you," she informs me.

I nuzzle her nose with mine. "I've had an epiphany."

She chuckles. "After everything you've been through? I'd be kind of surprised if you didn't." She takes a deep breath and claims my face in her tiny hands. "Everything will be different, from now on. I can feel it. Everything's changed. And we'll all be better for it."

My smile grows, blooming from somewhere deep in my heart... because I think she's right. I hold her close once more, and kiss her with all the hope I can feel growing... and the apprehension beneath it that I try to push away to think that tomorrow, she'll be gone.

The roof access door bursts open with a crash, and Spike staggers out, a bottle of whiskey that I'm fairly certain I hid in the pantry dangling in his hand.

"Oi, Angelus! Get off the Slayer and get in here! Bloody cable's out, and I don' wanna miss Xena!"

Buffy and I exchange a roll of eyes and a laugh.

"Some things never change," I correct her.

She dislodges herself from my embrace and stands up, smoothing my shirt down over her legs.

"Thank the Powers," she says with a grin, and offers a hand to help me up.

***

The Whistler once told me that our lives are defined by moments. Some of them are small... brief flashes of nothing that you might never notice if you aren't looking for them. Others are enormous, gargantuan mountains of change that you couldn't miss even if you wanted to -- and more often than not, you do. Each and every one of those moments, big or small, changes you and the direction of your life forever.

I can name a hundred transmutating events in my existence. The preponderance of them beginning with that bright Galway afternoon, when I said goodbye to my human life in the guise of spitting in the face of my father's disdain. I don't think I need to list all the others after... right up until the night, almost three weeks ago now, that I crawled into a sewer and gave it all up.

But these days -- these healing days with my mate and my Childe -- these have been about those smaller moments. Seconds ticking by like soft animals... albeit sometimes with nasty teeth.

I think I've changed more during these days than in all of my nearly 250 years combined.

It's not just about the lovemaking, either. Although... don't misunderstand. I don't think I realized how much I missed being skin-to-skin with another creature that I cared about until I had it again. No... the sex was just... a vehicle, I guess. Even the Bonding. Making love to the two beings that constitute the very core of me became far more than just a physical expression of my affection and desire for them. Being part of them... and taking them inside of myself... allowed me to find those bits of me that had gotten lost in the shadows of hopelessness and unending despair that Darla's return had wrought. And perhaps some others that I never had before at all.

I watched Buffy and Spike the last night we were all together, and I pondered those rediscovered things as reflected in them. Spike's lust for living... his uncanny ability to cut through any bullshit and not only get straight to the heart of the matter, but to describe it in every ugly, knife-edged detail. He is like a tender blade taken to the edges of my soul, scraping away the scabs and scars of denial and self-pity, whittling off a century of self-involved brooding and over-thinking about the meaning of it all, to expose the true nature of Be-ing. Just that. Eyes open, plunging into each night with a joyous battle cry... taking what you are given and using it to your best advantage. The lemons of fate not only squeezed into lemonade, but transformed into a lemonade stand empire. Laughing, crying and raging at the circus that is un-living. That is the essence of my Childe.

Spike has reminded me -- the Big Picture I was always so concerned with; the Ultimate Meaning of Everything -- is irrelevant. It is only *now*... all the nows of yesterday and tomorrow as they pass, that make us what we are. It is only when we stop trying to stand on the outside looking in, and start *living* on the inside, that we find all the joy this dimension has to give.

And Buffy... she is like... the sunshine of it all. Strength in the face of unimaginable burdens. Despite her Calling... all that her status as Chosen has stolen from her... she is still painfully, exquisitely human. She has reminded me what it means to have a soul -- to be connected to everything living thing in creation by that ethereal essence. To allow yourself that connection -- let it flow both ways, as it was meant to. She's compelled me to recall that giving and taking are two sides of the same coin... and that to truly touch my humanity, I need to be able to need. Let myself take, as well as give. To reach out when I am lost, just as I reach out to others when they are. That it's not all mine to bear.

She's also reminded me that what I want, ultimately, is not to be alive in a human sense, necessarily... that Shanshu isn't to live and breathe, raise a family, grow old and die in mortal time. It's not a reward to seek. The promise is there, of course, and I would be lying if I said that part of me didn't still desperately want it. But now... I don't see it as a place I'm trying to reach, so much as a puzzle I'm piecing together. My soul already is human... and every time I learn some small part about what that means, I am one piece closer to being truly whole.

These are some of the lessons my lovers have taught me with their words and gestures, with their bodies and their boundless, selfless caring. But more even than that... perhaps the most precious gift of all, to me, and the most difficult one to accept...

They've reminded me what it feels like to be loved. Really loved, deeply, selflessly and entirely. And maybe... just maybe... they've started to help me believe that I'm worth it.

So that last night that we spent alone together, I passed trying to thank them. Not with colorful words that would make Will snort or Buffy cry, but just by... being with them. Telling their skin and their lips... speaking with my moans and sighs as we three creatures, now as close to being truly One as we can possibly be, brought our bodies together again and again.

When I was soulless (and truth be told, when I was human, as well), there weren't many pleasures of the flesh that I didn't sample. There's almost nothing shocking or kinky under the moon for me, anymore. But what we create together is... entirely new, each time. The sheer power of it... the purity in every clutching hand and thrusting hip... each orgasm a new height achieved. Making love with Buffy and Spike is like... rebirth. Pain and bliss and unending recreation of one another. The room is electric with our cries and our scents, our musks mingled into something like... how the very Ground of being must smell, if such a thing were possible. And for the first time ever, I am not only part of something so much bigger than the sum of its parts -- but something bigger even than all the sums of all the parts. And each moment that I feel Spike's coolhard or Buffy's softwarm, or both... I'm filled with it. With everything that exists.

Such tiny, aching moments, but they flicker like a flame inside me, now. The pilot light of my existence, and all that came before is... not irrelevant, not wiped clean, but... *part*. Part of me and all that I am, all that I do, and all that I dream.

So when the larger moments come, I'm ready. I feel stronger than I ever have, with Buffy's "I love you. I'll call you later tonight and see how it went," echoing softly in my head and her sweet farewell kiss on my tongue. With Spike's "Oi, Peaches, where the Hell is the remote... and where the bloody FUCK did you get those faggy assed PANTS?" ... the memory of his hands and tears on my skin, comforting both of us after she left...

Like shield and armor, I carry them... wear them as I descend the staircase alone to face the remainder of my family... the human family I wounded and frightened most of all with my surrender to the darkness.

I've tried to mentally prepare myself for any eventuality, from a hesitant agreement to attempt to rebuild what I have destroyed, to out and out cold rejection, so their individual expressions in response to my arrival aren't any real surprise. Gunn wears his trademark mask of tough, cool neutrality. Wesley struggles to hide mixed emotions, each one playing clearly on his face -- relief... anger... confusion... curiosity.

Cordelia simply scowls, refusing to meet my gaze as I approach.

But however angry they might be, they didn't hesitate to come when I called to ask if we could talk, and I have to take that as a good sign. Coupled with the fact that they cared enough to contact Buffy in the first place, I have to hope that we can, in time, put things back together again.

I sit down in the empty chair and clear my throat. Their heavy, waiting gazes bear down on me with the weight of months of hurt and worry, and it's all I can do to find the words to express what I need to tell them.

"Thanks for coming, guys. I was hoping maybe we could... talk... about what's been happening lately. But... before we start, I want to say... I'm sorry. For... everything. I..." Where did all of my carefully planned words go? Why, suddenly, can't I articulate what seems so clear in my heart? "I should have... trusted you all enough to turn to you. I don't have any excuses. Not for how I reacted to Darla's return, or anything that came after. But please... know that... at the very least, I never meant to hurt any of you. And I am... truly sorry."

I can see Cordelia literally biting her tongue, and I can almost hear all the smart remarks that must be rolling around in her head. 'Oh, you mean like locking 20 lawyers in a wine cellar with two psychotic vampires, or like you firing us and then wandering off to die in the sewers without a word?'

But she says nothing, just chews her lip bloody and frowns harder.

Surprisingly, it's Wesley who chooses to break their tense silence. "All of us have spoken at length about this, Angel. And we have some things that we would like to say to you, as well. So... this summit, if you will, is more than welcome."

I have to say that, at least, is a relief. I try to smile at them... though I honestly don't know if I succeed.

"Good. So... shall I start?" I ask.

"No. I want to," Cordelia interrupts, sitting forward, facing me. Her hands are shaking, and for a moment, she can't seem to look up at me. But finally, she does. "Angel, I... can't say that I wasn't really hurt by what you did. I mean... after everything we went through... Doyle..." she shakes her head and glances away for a moment, "I really believed in what we were doing. And I can't say that I understand why you did what you did. But... I also know that... I didn't really try very hard to. I should have... listened to you, more. You're my best friend, and you were drowning, and all I could do was... bitch and criticize. So... I'm sorry for that. I'm sorry I didn't try harder to reach you."

I shake my head. "Cordy..."

She holds up one finely manicured hand. "No. Let me finish. I've been practicing, and I don't want to leave anything out."

I can't help but smile as relief expands like a bubble in my heart. I'm not good at hearing these sorts of things... at sharing what I feel is my responsibility. But I think that this is part of the lesson -- the give and take -- that I am learning to accept.

"Okay," I encourage her.

Cordy swallows stiffly and averts her eyes once more. "When I had nowhere to go, and, well, let's face it, I was pretty alone and useless out here, you gave me a home. You gave me a new family and... I've learned so much from you since all of this started." She glances up once more, and I see tears welling in her big, brown eyes. "I was so angry that you would just walk away from all that, you know? I was ready to come over here and tell you to stick it. But then... when we almost lost you... it... scared me. I mean, a whole lot more than all the ugly, brain-sucking monsters or my parents going to jail. More than anything has ever scared me before. I don't... want you not to be a part of my life. I just... I want to understand you better, because as much as I love you, I don't. Understand you, I mean. And I do. Want to." She looks around at the others with a little shrug. "That's it, I guess."

I have to take a deep breath and let all of that sink in. I've always known Cordelia cared, in her way... and frankly, I never for a moment blamed her for the way she reacted to the Darla situation. In fact, I thought I deserved far worse. But to hear the depth of emotion in her voice... see the sincerity in her damp eyes...

"Oh, except... I'm still really mad at you," she adds with a sniffle.

"I understand," I assure her.

"Yes," Wesley cuts in, "I must say, Cordelia has spoken my feelings, as well. Almost word for word. With the exception of this: I can't let it go without saying that... I feel almost as responsible for what has happened as you are, Angel." He holds up a hand when I move to object. "No... please. You have, as Cordelia said, been more than generous in giving us somewhere to go... and something to believe in, this past year. You have been a good friend... there for us when we needed to talk, or simply... needed to know someone cared. And I feel horribly that I didn't try harder to do the same for you. We trust you... still. I very much want you to feel the same. I realize that there are complicated things about your state of being and your history that you are ashamed of... and that you're not comfortable talking about. But let me make this clear -- we *are* here for you. No matter what the circumstances. If I had made a real attempt to be certain you knew this... perhaps this would never have happened."

I look away. There's too much emotion inside of me to be able to look at them, right now. Of all the things I was expecting to happen here, today, what I am hearing never even made it on the list.

"Now I'm satisfied that all has been said that we needed to say," Wesley concludes, "At least as far as I'm concerned."

"Me too," Gunn adds, speaking for the first time. "More or less."

"I don't suspect the coming days will be easy for any of us, Angel," Wes goes on, "But your work -- *our* work -- and you... are very important to all of us. We are willing to do whatever it takes to help you get back on track."

Gunn nods his agreement.

"Anything," Cordy amends.

I find my voice choked by a bewildering storm of emotion... gratitude, surprise, and happiness. That they think they need to apologize to *me*...

"Thank you," I finally manage to tell them, and I wish so much that there were better words to express what I'm feeling. "I know that I... hurt you all, and I'm sorry. I should have trusted you more with what I was going through. I just didn't... know how to explain. Or even if I should."

Wesley leans forward, and in a shockingly open and dramatic gesture for such a reserved man, sets his hand on mine and gives it a fierce squeeze.

"We care about you very deeply, my friend. We want to learn to understand, and we want you to know that... no matter how complicated or ugly you may believe what happens to you is, we are your friends. And of all this things this episode has taught us, perhaps most important is that.." he glances around at each of the faces in our circle. "We are family. And if we don't lean on one another, then all is lost."

I feel my tears returning. Tears of joy and disbelief that I -- in my estimation not so long ago, a creature unworthy of mercy, let alone forgiveness -- could be so blessed as to have such a wonderful family... seems more reward than I ever could have hoped for.

And in a moment, it seems, we are all on our feet, clutching at one another and weeping openly, while laughing at the same time. When the embrace is finished, and we return to our seats, it's my turn to speak again.

I take a deep, suddenly very necessary breath, and with Cordelia's small hand clutched tightly in mine, I begin at the beginning.

"The Sire/Childe bond is very complicated. It's a tie more profound than I think can adequately be expressed in words. That's why there are so many intricate laws and rituals involved, as I'm sure you know, Wesley. One of the most fundamental is... you simply don't kill the one who made you. And despite the fact that Darla and I had been estranged for nearly a century when I did...it still... effected me."

*** By the time I'm done telling my friends what amounts to my life's story, it's late. We're all exhausted from the emotional sharing... the hours of catharsis and healing. And although I'm drained utterly as I drag my tired bones up to the suite, I feel almost... buoyant. As if the last of the chains that have weighed me down for so long are now finally gone.

Spike is already asleep, sprawled out naked on the bed with a half-empty beer clutched in one hand, and the long burnt-out remains of a cigarette in the fingers of the other. I know I should probably be angry... he could have burned down the hotel with his carelessness. And tomorrow, I'll have to sit him down and make the first amendment to the list of rules he'll spend the majority of our time together eschewing.

But for now... I just take a moment to look at him... gaze down on his pale, sculptured beauty and the stubborn refusal to be anything but what he is plainly evident even when he is in repose. This boy... this blonde Adonis, who captured the cold center of a demon's heart so many years ago, and gave even that evil creature warmth. Captured a mind obsessed with power and taking, and forced it to learn to give. My Most Favoured, and still most beloved, Childe.

I take the bottle and the cigarette butt from his hands, put them on the nightstand, and sit down on the bed beside him, remembering... a thousand nights of tenderness and passion we've shared... all the forevers that we promised one another, once upon a time. And I can't help but think I'm looking at another miracle... that our bond has drawn us so tightly back together after a century of separation, both physical and emotional. And now, looking at him with a clear mind, I realize that I missed his presence in my life. His unpretentious joie de vivre that has made me want to rip his head off more times than I can count... now seems like the final bit of mending for a hole in my existence that I never really knew was there until this moment.

I stroke his chiseled cheekbone... trace the edges of his eyes, and those thick lashes flutter open, sky blue orbs focusing on me. In those few seconds when he first wakes, before the Spike facade has an opportunity to assert itself in his defense, he is Will... just my lovely young Will, and his smile is pure, almost innocently boyish, and lights his face with love.

An eternity of guilt may be my cross to bear. And I can shoulder it gladly, fully certain that it is just punishment for the things I've done... the pain I've caused, and the lives I've stolen. But still... it seems so much... less... when I know that this man and the people who I spend the afternoon opening my heart to, and the tiny, golden warrior who left only hours earlier... all love me as they do.

"How'd it go?" Spike asks sleepily, and I almost believe that he wants to know.

I sigh. "It went. It was difficult, but... we got through it more or less in one piece."

He nods and sits up, leaning back against the headboard, regarding me closely, as if inspecting for injuries.

"Y'okay?"

"Yeah. I am," I admit.

Spike exhales as though he's been holding that breath for a long time. Has he been... worried?

Nah.

"What'd they say about me stayin'?" he asks almost shyly. He's ten times as beautiful without his armor... and I love him ten times more than that.

I reach up to touch his face again, and he leans into it, closing his eyes with a soft sigh.

"They were... understandably skeptical. Cordelia suggested keeping you chained in the basement. But I think they'll get over that."

He grins. "S' gonna be fun, drivin' that bunch nutters."

I try my damndest to frown in disapproval, but I just can't seem to pull it off. "I really wish you wouldn't."

Spike snorts, now fully Spike again. "Yeah, well, if wishes were horses, right, Peaches?" He reaches behind me for his beer, but I stay the hand. His eyes tick back to me, questioning.

I lean toward him and take that beautiful face between my hands...watch his eyes go wide with surprise at the unexpected approach as I draw him in for a gentle kiss... soft and long. I sweep his lips inside and out, and taste myself and our line there, in that cool haven... the smoke and the tang of beer... wonderful Spike Things. Will Things. Love Things.

For a moment, he's stiff in my embrace, but then I feel him relax into me... feel his carefully constructed shell slip away with a soft sigh, and William reappears, throwing himself utterly into that eternal kiss that was once the herald of his making.

I pull away and I'm brimming... I've lost everything, these past few years... and in only a few days, had it returned to me tenfold. Gift after precious gift, and now...

"I love you, William. I want to make love with you... tonight... every night... forever."

I expect him to laugh. To snort or scoff or mock me, as is always his way when I get melodramatic. But he doesn't. His brow furrows a little, the scar on the left side crinkling, and he swallows stiffly, but his gaze doesn't leave mine.

I know that he's uncomfortable with my habit of words. He always has been. And with good reason. In his youth, my soulless self often said one thing and did quite another. Professed to love him, as I just did, and proceeded to beat him ragged... whispering soothing words over screams of agony.

But it's in my nature to speak. I can't help it -- I've always had a big mouth. Now, though, I'm telling him a truth deeper than any I think I've expressed to him before... trying to put words to a depth of gratitude and desire that are beyond expression. And I think maybe some part of him understands that.

Spike arches that scarred eyebrow and his next words are definitely Spike words, but his tone is... well... it says something far more loving than the words themselves. "If you wanna shag, nonce, you don't have to resort to bloody poetry. I'm not the Slayer."

I can't help but laugh, and as I kiss him once more, more passionately, this time, I wonder...

Where are the boundaries of my Curse, if they exist anymore at all? Because I can't imagine being happier than I am right now. Soul and demon alike are set aflame with their very different joys. How long will it be before I feel my essence being torn from my shell as punishment for all of the happiness I've had this day?

But then... *perfect* happiness is something else entirely, isn't it? It's an illusion... a gift belonging to the naive, who think that a moment can last forever... that no pain can ever touch them again, if they are this exhilarated. All those years ago, when I made love with Buffy for the first time, even I was innocent in it -- washed away by the only comfort I'd experienced in a century. Like a virgin again myself, full of romantic dreams of a better future... a perfect future, with her.

But I'm older now... wiser. I know better than to think that this flawless moment is anything more than that -- a moment. And no matter how hard my body rejoices... no matter how high the ecstasy of touch, of connection, takes me...

I know it is only for now.

That in itself is a sort of epiphany... a new freedom. It sets me loose to enjoy this coupling with my Childe the way I did so many nights when we were the gods of our world. It's the same, now... this freedom... but different in equal measure. I wonder how it is for him today, when my soul is touching him through my hands on his smooth, cool skin. I wonder if he knows or cares, one way or the other, or if the flesh and blood are enough. I don't know... I can't ask... and after a while, it really doesn't matter anyway.

He feels so good.

I let my hands and mouth re-experience this new/old sensation, so similar to the tryst with Buffy on the roof last night. Free of thought, of pain and care... just the marble cut of his form beneath me... his moaning and shivering as I caress him.

There is a difference between making love with Spike and with Buffy. A lot of them, actually. Neither is necessarily better than the other, but right now, the differences are exquisite. He is hard where she is soft... cool where she is warm. Like Me where she is Other. And that is its own sort of comfort.

My Will looks into my eyes as his features toughen, and the azure orbs turn to gold. Blunt teeth sharpen to fangs, and the call of the Blood hums louder, even, than the song of the flesh. Our mouths tangle, knifelike teeth cutting tender lips as he turns me over, and our union becomes a paradox in motion. He growls, and I snarl -- we are animals. But his touch, though burning and frantic, is still gentle and loving -- because part of us are men, too. Lovers. This is a bond I can never share with another creature-- not even my Buffy. I created this being -- he is mine, and I am his, for as long as we exist. My soul only makes the melding more intense, more emotional... more of a sweet storm than it once was.

Spike slices open his wrist with a fang, and I drink of him before he smears both our bodies with it, and we are sticky and slick with the essence of our shared eternity. He uses that viscous sum and substance to lubricate himself and me, and in a single, powerful, rending thrust, we are one in body as well as blood. The smell of the rut... of the gore coating our skin... on the sheets, everywhere... is intoxicating beyond the description of it. He cries out as he moves deep, driving toward my center, and I answer with a roar of my own as I arch into him. He takes my aching erection in a fierce grip, and in a moment, the last of humanity is gone...

Another liberation. A celebration of what we are... and what we are becoming.

We dance this ancient demon dance, my Childe and I... this ritual so fully carnal, primal, that even our common mate can never truly be a part of it. The waves of rapture rage over us, ever higher, until we are both screaming for release, and I pull him down to me... tear into his throat with tender violence, feeling our mingled passion rush over my tongue. He wails as though I am killing him again, and embeds his fangs in my vein...

And the world is red... white... blood and stars... eternal life and love and all that our bond entails as we come together... he fills me -- his blood, his cold seed -- and he takes me in return until there is nothing left of either of us but sated silence as he collapses into my arms.

I lie perfectly still and listen to it. The nothing all around us, and the everything inside of us.

"Good holy FUCK!" he exclaims into my neck, and I laugh.

Moments later, the phone beside the bed rings, and I reach over to answer it.

"Yes," I murmur, my mind and body equally languid.

"Okay, you guys are going to have to get on a schedule or something. I almost drove the DeSoto through the front of the Magic Box," Buffy informs me.

I laugh some more. "Sorry. I guess I should have warned you that the Bond can get... intense, sometimes."

"Yeah... maybe you should have a pamphlet or something."

"I'll work on it."

Spike picks his head up from its resting-place on my chest. "S'at the Slayer?"

I nod.

"Hm. Tell her to sod off. I'm sleepy," he grumbles, rolling off of me, "And I need a shower."

Spike gets up and pads off toward the bathroom.

"Didn't mean to interrupt your post-coital bliss," Buffy chuckles, "But I wanted to yell at you for the car thing. And tell you both that I love you."

I smile and sigh deeply. "We love you, too. Have you seen the others, then?"

"Yeah. I was just going to hook up with Giles. He's in supermega research mode -- the Glory thing. And... he wants to meet with you, too. To, uh... talk about the Bonding."

I close my eyes. See? Not perfect. The world is still waiting for us outside, and it is still just as dangerous and ugly as it has ever been.

"Tell him I'd be happy to."

"So... how did it go with the others? They obviously didn't stake you..."

I tell my beloved about the meeting with Cordelia, Gunn and Wesley, and we chat about this and that... nothing and everything. She makes me laugh, my Buffy. I could sit and listen to her babbling all night.

"OI FUZZY! You coming or what?" Spike calls.

"Spike and I will come on Tuesday, how's that?" I ask Buffy.

I can practically hear her smile. "Two days too far away. I miss you. Go take a shower before Sid has an embolism."

"He can't..." I laugh, "Okay. I miss you, too. Goodnight, my love."

"Goodnight. Tell Spike not to drop the soap."

With a chuckle, I hang up, and move to join Spike. The steam rolls out in thick waves as I open the door, and I can hear him bellowing one of those godawful sku or skug songs, or whatever they're called.

Life is complicated. I am a complex being, with countless layers and desires... And I bet that a great many challenges, dangers, and near-apocalypses still lie before us. But, to be honest?

"Christ, Peaches, close the effin' door! You're lettin' all the heat out, ya bloody idiot!"

Honestly, I don't think I really mind so much anymore. After all... I always wanted an adventure.


End file.
